


Itch in Your Veins

by romanticalgirl



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soldiers get strange</p>
            </blockquote>





	Itch in Your Veins

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to inlovewithnight for watching the show specifically so she could beta for me, which is the truth, even if she tells you it was for the hot guys.
> 
> Originally posted 3-29-09

“Letters from home?” Brad asks as his long shadow stretches out over Nate. Nate glances up at Brad and shrugs before turning his gaze back to his letters. “Let me guess. Your homecoming queen is waiting for you, ready to settle down and have a dozen babies and live behind the white picket fence.”

“I didn’t date the homecoming queen.” Nate smiles wryly, his voice as dry as the desert air.

Brad settles onto the ground next to Nate, his back against the Humvee and his arms resting on top of his knees. They’re shipping out soon, but for now they’re in the relative real world of Mathilda, waiting for orders. This is the twilight time, when no one knows when the darkness is going to fall and everyone’s waiting on night to cloak them in it so they can attack. Hearts speed up and slow down, blood flows hot and then like ice. They’re all torn between demon and angel. “You had to have dated the homecoming queen.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because, Ivy League, you’re the type. You’re the apple of every mother’s eye. You’re the guy that every girl in class swoons over. You’re the guy every mom wants her daughter to marry and every dad hopes to clap his hand on your shoulder and call you son-in-law. You’re the bright future. Serving your country and doing your duty so you can go home and hold your head high, getting by on scholarships while everyone else is struggling through community college on the GI Bill.”

“Wow, nice that you hold me in such high regard, Sergeant.”

“I mean it with all due respect,” Brad assures him, voice dry. 

“Next I suppose you think I’ll serve apple pie and ice cream at my wedding to continue the theme of glorious Americana you’ve branded me with.” Nate folds the letter, rubbing it against the envelope in the dry air. “But I didn’t date the homecoming queen. In fact, I didn’t go to homecoming. I also didn’t go to my prom.”

“You went to your prom.” Brad’s voice is thick with incredulity and Nate can’t help but smile.

“Yeah, okay. I went to my prom.” He unfolds the letter and hands it to Brad. “Did you?”

“What?” Brad glances down at the letter and sees it’s one of the generic letters from kids that they keep getting, wishes for peace and for war and everything in between. 

“Did you go to your prom?” 

Brad turns his head and looks at Nate for a long moment, one eyebrow going up before it lowers and the amusement in his eyes disappears. “Yeah.”

“Right.” Nate takes the letter back and thumps his head against the Humvee. He tries to change the subject. “Hurry up and wait.”

“What was her name?”

“Who?”

Brad rolls his eyes and tugs his cover down over his face as he stretches out on the ground beside Nate. He pillows his head in his hands and Nate watches his breathing slow as he relaxes in the middle of nowhere with war on the horizon. God bless the Marine Corps. “Your prom date, dipshit.”

“I’m your commanding officer, need I remind you?”

“Your prom date, Lieutenant Dipshit.”

Nate swallows his laugh and glances up at the sheer blue of the sky. “Amanda. She wore a white dress and I wore a black tux and I bought this corsage of red roses that were almost black. She was beautiful.” He grabs a rock from the dirt beside him and tosses it across the ground, watching it skitter and throw a trail of dust. “You?”

“I don’t remember. Different life.” Brad turns his head, his eyes as blue as the sky, bright from the sun. “I think she wore gray.”

Nate knows the history, can’t help but know it thanks to Ray, but it doesn’t give him the right to pour salt in Brad’s wounds. “She must have been something.”

“What makes you say that?”

Nate shrugs and boosts himself off the ground, grinding the letter into the dirt with the heel of his hand. “You’re still thinking about her.”

**

Reveille sounds and they all roll out of bed in silence. The bitching and the pissing and moaning are secondary to the conditioning, and that means they’re dressed and hitting the ground running before they’re even fully awake. Instinct is what makes them who they are, what keeps them alive. Nate hits his stride and keeps moving, following the perimeter of the camp without even realizing Colbert’s fallen in step beside him.

They don’t speak, though Nate can hear some of the others get their voices, calling out marching chants and bullshit, talking about parentage and porn, sometimes in the same breath. Brad’s chest rises and falls in rhythm with Nate’s as they swing the last corner, heading for the showers. It’s a companionable silence, and one Nate does nothing to shatter. He can hear Ray in the distance, flipping Poke shit about an Indian rain dance, and half the guys are hooting at Rudy for running with his pack but without his shirt. Nate shuts off his brain and shuts out the sound and just runs, listening to Brad breathe roughly nearby. 

Brad ducks into his tent and grabs his gear, tugging off his sweat-soaked t-shirt as he goes. Nate watches for a moment then heads to his own tent, rubbing at a day’s worth of stubble on his chin. The officer’s head is nearly empty, too many of them forgoing the morning run for crap coffee and pretending they know anything more than what they get off a hand-cranked radio filtering the BBC. He glances over as Brad disappears into the NCO head, fighting through the mess of sweaty bodies, shoving and insulting in the way only Brad seems able to do. No one takes offense here, except the young and stupid, but Brad elevates insults to a Shakespearean level, vicious and cutting. The Iceman, they call him, stone cold in word and deed.

Nate showers quickly and shaves, scrubbing at his face with his hands long after it’s clean. His green eyes look back at him in the mirror, telling him nothing he doesn’t already know. Rubbing his hand through his hair, he heads back to his tent, taking care of his things before heading to his morning meeting. Nothing’s changed in the four weeks they’ve been here, fresh off the ship that was supposed to take them to clean up Timor. All they’ve done is sit around, waiting for the rest of the world to decide what they’re doing and how. A soldier’s life is hurry up and wait, but it’s better, he supposes, to have some sort of purpose than nothing at all. 

“Lieutenant Fick.” 

Nate glances up from his maps at Brad and stops. “Yes, Sergeant?”

“I was wrong.”

“About?” Nate can’t help the surprise in his voice. Brad is never wrong.

“My prom date. She wore blue.”

“Oh. Well. I’ll take that under advisement, Sergeant.” Nate watches Brad closely for any sign of emotion, for any hint as to what the color change might mean. “As for now, Captain McGraw and Captain Schwetje.”

“You have my utmost sympathies, Sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Nate nods at Brad and jogs off toward the command tent, taking great care to keep his eyes front and not look back to see what Brad does next.

**

Brad’s a whiz with gadgets and Nate watches him as he plays with the maps, scrolling through and talking about the capabilities the GPS gives them. Nate’s eyes constantly go to Brad’s hands, the long fingers tracing lines and highways on the grids. 

Towns with names they wouldn’t have known how to pronounce before Afghanistan are falling off their tongues as easily as ‘San Diego’ and ‘Hartford’ and ‘Dayton’. Brad talks about the bridges, the Euphrates and the Tigris, and Nate can’t help but remember Bible school and the stories he learned. Something shivers along his spine and he shakes it away, flushing slightly as Brad raises his eyes and gives Nate a questioning look. He doesn’t respond and Brad turns his gaze back to the map, continuing his discussion like nothing happened. Ray starts to say something but segues into something else, his almost-seamless transition making the heat rise farther in Nate’s face. 

Trombley asks a question and bickering starts in earnest, Poke and Garza getting into the mix. Brad laughs and rolls out of the Humvee. He leaves them arguing the merits of porn magazines and Ray’s mother’s place in them, or something equally absurd and thus perfectly natural for this place, walking for a bit before looking back at Nate. Nate moves after him, content to leave the chatter behind and fall in line with Brad again. They walk slowly, discussing strategy and theory. Brad’s more than qualified to be an officer, but he laughs the thought off time and again, reminding everyone that he prefers to earn his living. Still, he offers his insights to Nate and they spend more time agreeing than disagreeing with each other.

“So, you think they’ll blow the bridges,” Nate says.

“That’s what I’d do. It’s protocol, right? You have an invading force coming from the south with the only access to your main city available by bride over a major waterway, you blow the bridge. Whether you whistle doing it or not.”

“They blow both bridges, slowing us down, if not stopping us.” Nate clasps his hands behind his back and keeps walking. “So the only real chance we have is surprise, but wouldn’t you think they’d have blown them already?”

“Saddam’s cocky.” Brad copies Nate’s posture as they walk the perimeter, an echo of their early morning run. “He thinks he’ll succeed or he thinks he’s got the overwhelming fighting force. He’s not going to admit that the US and the UN and everyone else that’s gunning for him are smarter. That’s like admitting defeat. So he won’t blow them early.”

“So surprise.”

“Surprise.” Brad stops and looks out at the vast plain of desert in front of them. “We’re short on supplies.”

“I know.”

“Not going to have much luck surprising anyone if we can’t see where we’re going and end up in a ditch because we don’t have batteries.”

“I know.”

“Not to mention the Humvees are shit and we’ve got fuck-all for repairs. We’re running on empty, LT, and we haven’t even started the push.”

“I know.” Nate sighs, straightening as he looks out at the miles of sand. “I’m doing everything I can, Brad. And, trust me, we all know what the situation is.”

“No, Sir. I don’t believe that.” Brad’s face is implacable, his eyes steely. “I believe you know it. I believe Gunny and Patterson know it, but that’s about it. Godfather’s looking to be General Patton and no one gives a fuck that we’re going to take it up the ass without lube.”

Nate sighs and shrugs. “What do you want me to do, Brad? I’ve put in the requisitions. I’ve pushed as hard as I can, but I’m not exactly at the top of the chain of command. Afghanistan was reasoned warfare compared to this. Afghanistan wasn’t fueled with emotions and fear. The push is going to come and we’re probably not going to have anything we need to make it through. But we’re Marines.”

Brad nods solemnly and his gaze never falters, but Nate still feels like he’s let him down. “We make do.”

**

Rumors fly faster in a Marine camp than in a high school, the only difference the number of ‘fuck’s per sentence. Everyone knows the push is coming soon, and there’s the growing sense of readiness that’s half unease. Nate watches the men try to pretend it’s not there, reading magazines and bullshitting, mocking Rudy and talking sex. Everyone has the same look in their eyes, though, when he stops in to give the next set of commands, to prepare them on what, if anything, is going on. Rumors of an in-country date are hot, whipping around the camp as viciously as the shamal. 

Brad stands apart from it all, his hands behind his back as he looks at the desert surrounding them. Nate watches him from a distance for a long time before moving closer, crossing his arms over his chest as he stops beside him. Neither of them speak, and the only movement is the wind rippling against their clothes. 

“Why are you here?”

Nate starts and straightens further, his shoulders back. The answer is on the tip of his tongue, but he feels it there for a long time before answering Brad. “I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to do something.”

“You’re meant for better things that this, you know. You know how to speak, how to lead men. You know how to make them trust and respect you, follow you into battle.”

“Well, I don’t know how true that is, given that you’re going to be four victors in front of me.” Nate huffs a soft laugh and Brad smiles, shaking his head slightly. “I’m doing my job, Brad. Just like you.”

“You should be somewhere better than this. Washington or…hell, I don’t know. Married to your prom date and having kids, making the world a better place through consumerism.”

“Are you calling me a bad Marine, Sergeant?”

“No, sir.” Brad’s voice is truthful but hard, tense in ways Nate can’t figure out. “You’re good at what you do, but you’re stuck with what you’ve got.”

“I’ve got the best of the best, Brad.” Nate glances at Brad, watching the fading sunlight shadow his face in reds and oranges. “Bravo Company is the elite.”

“Yeah, and our command structure, present company excluded, sir, is a fuck-up of the highest order.” Brad’s jaw tightens and he shrugs slightly, his muscles tense beneath his t-shirt. “Diamonds buried in the bullshit, sir.”

“Better than just bullshit.”

Brad’s body jerks with a laugh and he glances sidelong at Nate. “You’re like the goddamned good fairy, basketful of silver fucking linings, aren’t you, sir?”

“I don’t know, Brad. It doesn’t matter if the glass is half full or half empty so long as there’s alcohol in it, right?” Brad doesn’t laugh again, but his smile is more open than Nate thinks he’s ever seen. He reaches out, brushing his palm against the small of Brad’s back, fingers ghosting over Brad’s wrists.

“Sir.” Brad steps away and gives Nate the slightest shake of his head. “I should get back to the tent, sir.” He meets Nate’s stare and shakes his head again, more blatantly this time. “This is going to end for you, sir. You’re going to go back to the real world and get married, have kids, get a job and be a good, upstanding citizen. This is the real world for me.”

“So we can’t be friends?”

“Rank aside, sir?”

Nate nods, his tongue running worriedly against the back of his bottom teeth. “Rank aside.”

“No, sir. I’m sorry.” Brad frowns, his forehead lined. “Lieutenant Fick-”

“Nate.”

“I can’t call you Nate.”

Nate tilts his head and moves around, facing Brad head-on. “Do it.”

“Lieutenant…”

“Do it, Sergeant.” 

Brad’s mouth purses and the look he gives Nate is narrowed and angry. “Nate.”

Nate carefully suppresses the shiver that threatens at the sound of his name on Brad’s lips, barely managing a smile. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I’m a Recon Marine. Difficulty level isn’t the question, sir.” Brad exhales slowly, his breath escaping him almost like a sigh. “You know we can’t be friends. None of us are friends, sir. Brothers, yes. But we’re not friends. Friends get you killed.”

“Brothers don’t?” Nate’s surprised by the flush on Brad’s cheeks, surprised to see him even slightly flustered. “So you can’t be friends with me because you’re afraid I’m going to get my dumb ass dead?”

“I can’t be friends with you because you’re my commanding officer and because I have to show you the respect you deserve, sir. You’re the voice of authority over my life and when you say go, I go. When you say shit, I shit.”

“I defer to your own judgment in shitting, Sergeant.”

“Damn it, Nate.”

Nate smiles, trying not to laugh at the barely restrained annoyance that’s threatening the Iceman’s legendary composure. “Did you spend last night thinking about her, Sergeant?”

Brad drops his gaze to Nate’s and a frisson of danger runs along Nate’s spine. “No, sir.”

Nate smiles. “I didn’t think so.”

“We can’t be friends.”

“I know.” Nate nods and glances back to camp before looking Brad in the eye. “But then, I never said that friendship was what I wanted.” He takes a step back and pivots his turn, precision in the muscle memory of movement. “Goodnight, Sergeant.”

**

The shamal is tearing through the camp like a blitzkrieg. Nate rubs his eyes; even within the canvas of the tent, he can feel the grit in his eyes and against his skin. He’s alone for now, the rest of the command staff caught on the other side of the camp by the wind. He can hear shouts - no doubt another tent’s gone down - but he doesn’t move other than to rub at the back of his neck.

The sound of the wind changes and he looks up, not entirely surprised to see Brad standing inside his tent. Leave it to Colbert to brave a fucking windstorm to have the last word. “Can I help you, Sergeant?”

“I do not appreciate being fucked with, sir.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re in the wrong line of work.” Nate doesn’t crack a smile as Brad walks over, barely concealed agitation in every step. It’s rare to see Brad at a loss, and if nothing else, Nate’s incredibly proud of the fact that he’s managed to ruffle Brad’s feathers. 

“What are you trying to do?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow, Sergeant.” Nate stood up, unwilling to lose his advantage by being so much shorter than Brad. 

“Look, I can handle orders that make no sense. I follow orders; it’s what I do. I don’t worry about right or wrong or smart or fucked. I just do what I’m told and come out alive on the other side. But I don’t appreciate this, sir.”

“I’m afraid still at a loss, Sergeant.”

Brad closes the distance between them, moving in until Nate can feel the heat of Brad’s body. “What do you want?”

“Why are you here, Brad?”

“It’s windy outside. Didn’t want to end up in Oz.”

“Oz is where we started. You’ve got the story backwards.” Nate’s eyes trace the line of Brad’s jaw to his full lower lip, then lift up to meet Brad’s gaze. “Are you going to let something that happened years ago dictate the rest of your life?”

“Isn’t that how it works?”

“Do you wish you were living in some ranch house in California, surfing every morning before you go off to the office, getting home by six for dinner on the table and listening to your two-point-five kids fight over whose turn it is to play the X-box?” Nate shakes his head. “Because honestly, I can’t see it. Maybe that’s the man you thought you were or maybe it’s the man you think you’re supposed to be, or maybe you’re just missing what you think you’re missing out on, but the Brad Colbert I know isn’t the way he is because his prom date dumped him for his best friend.”

“Maybe you don’t know Brad Colbert as well as you think you do.”

“Maybe I don’t.” Nate agrees with a nod. “And maybe this has nothing to do with her and her blue dress.”

“It doesn’t.”

Nate doesn’t look away, but he does sigh softly. “Why are you here, Brad?”

Brad licks his lips and glances at Nate’s mouth before stepping back and shaking his head. “Your cup is half full, sir. I drink straight from the bottle.”

“I don’t think you miss it.” Nate presses his advantage, stepping in toward Brad and not allowing him to put distance between them. “I don’t think you miss him or her. I don’t think you even think about them.”

“I don’t.”

“But you think about what happened. You think about brotherhood” His voice softens and he can see the hit score in Brad’s eyes. “That’s what bothers you, right? That he was your best friend and he betrayed you. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you need this. You need them.” He nods toward the tent flap and the rest of the camp on the other side of the canvas wall. “You need them to need you, you need to need them.”

“And here I thought you studied the classics, Lieutenant, not psychology.”

“I’m not going to betray you, Brad.”

“I don’t recall suggesting you would, sir. I simply recall a conversation that involved the rights and privileges of rank and the potential for disaster if one of a lower rank does not observe the rules therein contained. I trust you, sir, and I respect you, and I will do everything in my power to insure that my performance proves that.”

“Ice in your veins and a stick up your ass.” Nate sighs and rubs the back of his neck, offering Brad a slight smile and a shake of his head. “Dismissed, Sergeant.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Brad’s voice is dangerously tight, higher than normal. His eyes narrow as he stands stock-still looking hard at Nate.

“I said you’re dismissed, Sergeant.”

“What the fuck, Nate.” Brad stalks toward him. “You want to tell me what the goddamn fuck this is about?”

“I’m just curious. You get hurt, and I get that. But why give up on love but join the Marines?”

“I was already a Marine.”

“Then why stick with them? He was your best friend, like a brother, right? He betrayed you too.”

“The Marines are a better class of brothers.” 

Nate nods, shrugging slightly, frowning when Brad smiles. “What?”

“Are you worried I’m not going to get some in our next libo, sir? If that’s your concern, I can assure you, I don’t confuse sex with love.”

“I’d never accuse you of that.” Nate’s mouth quirks in a not-quite smile. “And I’ve seen you in action, Sergeant. I’m not worried about any of your abilities.”

Brad frowns and narrows his eyes further, his gaze intent on Nate. Nate resists the urge to take a step back, though the two inches of height Brad has on him suddenly seem like much more. He ignores the tightening of his body, keeping his eyes on Brad’s face. Brad watches Nate’s eyes and takes another step closer. “Then what’s this about, Nate?”

“You’re dismissed, Sergeant.”

Brad’s hand lifts, moving the air besides Nate’s jaw without actually touching him. “Nate?”

Every instinct in Nate’s brain screams at him to move into Brad’s implied touch, but Nate jerks his chin up and meets Brad’s gaze. Brad smiles slowly and Nate feels his body tighten further, his dick harden at the challenge Brad’s blatantly throwing down.

Brad steps back, but his smile remains in place. “Wind’s died down.”

Nate nods once, realizing the roaring sound is the rush of blood in his ears. “Dismissed, Sergeant.”

“You said that, sir.” Brad drops his eyes to Nate’s mouth and Nate can’t stop the impulse to lick his lips. Brad exhales a rough breath, the sound loud in the silence. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

Nate’s brow furrows. “What doesn’t?”

“This,” Brad growls, his hand firm against Nate’s jaw as he eliminates the distance between them, mouth hard against Nate’s. Nate makes a noise, something between a gasp and a groan, opening his mouth against the practiced assault of Brad’s. Brad’s tongue invades, tangling with Nate’s, deepening the kiss.

Nate jerks back, his chest heaving. There’s absolutely no expression on Brad’s face. Nate hears the sound of voices growing closer and he bites his lower lip, feeling the swollen flesh.

“Don’t do that,” Brad warns him softly. Nate looks up at him, swallowing hard at the hungry look in Brad’s eyes. Nate releases his lip, sucking it into his mouth to soothe the bite marks. Brad curses under his breath and turns away, moving to the opposite side of the tent, heading for the door. “Goodnight, Lieutenant.”

“Sergeant.” Nate looks down, surprised to see his hands against the table, his knuckles white from clenching the edge. He breathes carefully, slowing his heart rate before heading to his rack, wondering what the fuck just happened.

**

“Did you and Dad have a fight?”

Nate steels his face to keep from laughing as he looks evenly at Ray. “I’m sorry, corporal, but did you just intimate that your commanding officer is the equivalent of your pole-dancing, whiskey tango mother?”

“No, sir. I was thinking more of a ‘My Two Dads’ situation, sir.”

“Excuse him, sir.” Poke jabs Ray hard in the ribs. “He doesn’t know who his daddy was, so he’s a little bitter. We’re just wondering, sir, if you and Sergeant Colbert had a falling out.” He pauses briefly then blinks. “Sir.”

“And why would you be wondering that, gentlemen?”

“Well, sir,” Poke gives Ray a warning glance as he starts to open his mouth. “Sergeant Colbert has been a little…”

“Brad’s been pissier than a prom queen on her period,” Ray interjects. “He’s fucking moody.”

“And we’d noticed, sir-” Tony’s smile reminds Nate that he’s surrounded by men whose entire job is to notice. “That you and Brad hadn’t been keeping to your routine.”

“Our routine?” Nate works to keep his voice neutral.

“Yes, sir.”

“Sergeant Colbert and I have a…”

“Routine.” Ray nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Well,” Nate swallows and wonders briefly if he’ll get lucky and someone will start the goddamned war already. “You’ll have to ask Sergeant Colbert. To my knowledge, he and I are fine.”

Ray looks dubious, but Poke wraps his hand around the back of Ray’s neck, forcibly turning him, nodding in Nate’s direction. “Thanks, LT.”

Nate covers his eyes with his hands, sighing heavily. He checks his watch and resumes heading for his debriefing. He glances toward Bravo’s tent and then quickly looks away, wary of seeing Brad or, worse yet, catching his eye.

He listens to Godfather and Schwetje, raising the question of supplies and timetables again. The BBC broadcast is turned into military lingo and the promise of a movie in the mess. He rubs his eyes, wondering how to spin things to his men so he doesn’t sound completely incompetent.

“Mention that it’s an Adam Sandler movie.”

Nate looks up, not at all surprised to see Brad. “Listening in?”

“Just happened by.” Brad smiles. “I understand that you and I are having some sort of marital spat?”

“I got more parental. I don’t think Ray’s willing to give up his spot as Brad Colbert’s little woman.”

Brad’s smile is all teeth and full lower lip, amused and not predatory. “He claims we’re divorced.”

“And you and I got the kids? This is getting incestuous.”

“Well, we are talking about Ray. He’s used to that. Hell, you’re from New England. Image you’ve got your own up there. Just call it purebred instead of inbred.”

“We can afford the requisite surgery to correct any physical defects.”

“Whereas Ray’s family takes pride in them.” Brad pushes off the post he’s leaning against. “You a fan of Adam Sandler, Lieutenant?”

Nate swallows and shakes his head. “Not particularly.”

“Me either.” Brad sketches a salute at Nate and head back to Bravo Company’s tent. Nate watches him for a moment then takes a few hurried strides to catch up with him. 

“Were you aware we have a routine?”

“Do we?”

“Apparently.”

“Huh. Ray didn’t mention that. Just asked me if I was going to get back to kissing your hot ass soon.”

Nate gives Brad a look, smirking at him despite the flare in his chest – a mix of panic and interest. “You used to kiss my ass? Did I miss that?”

Brad smirks back, his eyes hot. “You think you could miss me doing that, sir?”

“No. I imagine I’d remember anything you did to my ass, Sergeant.” Nate watches Brad carefully. “Save it. Kiss it.” He shrugs, feeling the burn of Brad’s gaze.

“Yes sir,” Brad nods. “I would do my best to make sure any actions to your ass were memorable.”

“Jesus Christ, Brad.” Ray’s voice breaks the tension escalating between them. “Just kiss and make the fuck up already. I don’t want to worry about your bullshit instead of watching ‘Happy Gilmore’.”

“Don’t worry, Ray,” Nate assures him. “Sergeant Colbert and I have resolved any differences that might interfere with your recreational enjoyment.”

“So you can get back to jerking off while thinking about us,” Brad adds.

“Yeah, but does that mean you’re both going to be pains in my ass on the job?”

“Ray?” Brad’s voice is dryly acidic. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Christ. Know you’re not freeballin’ it, since you panties are in a fucking twist.” He flips Brad off casually before ducking back under cover.

“I guess the coming attraction announcement beat us.”

Brad huffs a slight laugh and shakes his head before inclining it toward Nate. “Not the coming attraction I’m interested in, sir.”

“Movie’s at eighteen-hundred.” Nate’s breath feels short, tight in his chest, and his words sound soft to his ears.

“Think I’ll run a diagnostic on the Blue Force.” Brad nods toward the motor pool. “If you get tired of golf.”

“I won’t be in the way?”

“Commanding officers are never in the way, sir.”

Nate laughs, reveling in Brad’s open smile. “We both know that’s rarely true.”

“I’ll see you at eighteen-hundred, Nate.”

He nods, trying to catch his breath, wondering if this is going to happen every time Brad says his name. “I thought I was supposed to give the orders.”

Brad’s voice drops to a rough whisper that Nate has to strain to hear. “Be there.” He doesn’t stay to see Nate nod, but Nate suspects Brad’s well aware Nate will be exactly where Brad wants him.

**

The sound of roughly 5000 men laughing is strangely quiet in the middle of the desert, especially compared to the blood pounding in Nate’s ears. He listens for the telltale sounds of loiterers or men who’d rather jack in the relative privacy afforded by movie night, but mostly he’s concentrated on the distant light of the motor pool and the now familiar sight of Brad’s Humvee.

“Hey.” Brad’s stripped down to the waist, his shirt hanging through the passenger window. “Remember when I used to be a diver?”

“Vaguely.” Nate leans against the Humvee, watching as Brad leans over the engine, the waxy yellow lights shining on the sheen of sweat along Brad’s spine. “It’s okay to admit it, you know. You signed up because you knew no woman could resist a guy who can hold his breath for four minutes.”

“That’s why you joined?” Brad looks sidelong at Nate.

Nate shakes his head. “No.” He shifts so that his hip is against the victor, his arms crossed over his chest. After a moment, he reaches out slowly, knowing Brad’s watching. His fingers graze Brad’s hip where the bone juts hard against the camouflage. Brad’s eyes narrow, not quite closing. Nate almost smiles. “You’re a butch Marine Republican.”

“Getting a little redundant there, college boy.”

“I wasn’t an English major.”

“And you’re a pansy-ass, Mama’s boy, boarding school, Ivy League punk.”

“Who just happens to be a butch Marine Republican.” Nate’s fingers slide higher, tracing just above Brad’s waistband, fingers against his tanned skin. “What the fuck is this, Brad?”

“Ray doesn’t put out.” There’s a joke in Brad’s tone, but Nate frowns.

“I’m not interested in being second.”

“It was a joke.” Brad’s voice is strained, his eyes on Nate’s fingers as they slide along his skin. “Nate…”

Nate glances up at him. Brad’s tongue is sliding along his lower lip, his eyes like liquid silver, locked on Nate’s mouth. Nate flattens his palm against Brad’s side; thumb stroking at the plane of his abdomen. Heat slices through Nate and he can barely breathe. Nate moves his hand, fingers fanning over the hardness of Brad’s muscles, and feels Brad suck in his breath. “You want my mouth here, Brad?”

Brad bites back a groan and shifts closer to Nate so he can feel the heat emanating from Brad’s body all along his own. “Fuck. Yes, sir.”

Nate bites his lower lip, which causes Brad to make another sound, this one completely instinctual, primal. Nate’s cock jerks and he swallows hard, barely keeping from moving closer to Brad. “I…We…”

Brad nods, obviously forcing himself to step back. He reaches past Nate to grab his shirt, the heavy scent of lust and sweat and Brad overwhelming. Nate reaches out again, his hand brushing against the front of Brad’s pants, over the hard bulge of his cock. Brad crushes his shirt in his grip and shudders hard. “Nate,” he rasps.

“I want to taste you, Brad.”

“Not on the fucking command deck.” Brad’s laugh is shaky.

“They call you Iceman.” Nate’s hand moves slowly, feeling the contours of Brad’s erection. “You’re burning up.”

“That’s because you’re a goddamned fuck more dangerous than Al-Qaeda and the fucking Iraqi army combined.” Brad turns his head, his breath hot on Nate’s jaw. “Not here, sir.”

Nate closes his eyes and turns his head, his mouth lined up with Brad’s, feeling the breath on his parted lips now. “Where?”

“Fuck if I know, sir. You’re the strategist. I’m just a grunt.”

“You’re more than that.” Nate licks his lips, his eyes on Brad’s mouth and his breath coming faster than any respectable Recon Marine should allow. “I wonder, Brad, will you make noises when I take your cock in my mouth?”

Brad’s teeth snap together and he breathes through his nose, the noise rough and loud. Nate starts to speak again, but Brad shakes his head and goes silent, shoving Nate back until they’re past the back door of the Humvee. Brad jerks it open and nods inside, following Nate as he scrambles in. 

“We’re going to make out in the back of a Humvee?” Nate’s voice is low and amused, but he reaches for Brad and slides his hands up his sides, feeling the hot skin in earnest now, letting his palms flatten over Brad’s back as he pulls him close. 

“Shit,” Brad groans and finds Nate’s mouth, sucking on his lower lip, pulling it into his mouth before sliding his tongue against Nate’s teeth and pushing it deep. Nate opens to him, wanting Brad as deep as he can go, sucking on Brad’s tongue hungrily. Brad braces himself over Nate, muscles in his arms flexing on either side of Nate’s head and he brings his hands up over Brad’s broad shoulders to run down them to Brad’s elbows and then back up, sliding down the vee of Brad’s body to his hips. Brad groans again, shifting so his legs are between Nate’s, rolling into him with a slow thrust as Nate answers Brad’s groan with one of his own.

“God, we can’t do this,” Nate murmurs against Brad’s neck, his tongue licking the salty sweat from Brad’s skin. The edge of the driver rear seat digs into his back, the edge of the passenger seat angling his hips up against Brad’s. “Fuck.” His mouth tastes more skin, nipping at the taut muscle at the base of Brad’s throat as he wraps a leg around the back of Brad’s. “Fuck, Brad.”

Brad’s mouth is worrying Nate’s neck, his breath snaking down beneath Nate’s collar and fanning over his skin as Brad’s teeth scrape the flesh above it. He growls low in his throat, the sound reverberating against Nate. “Shut the fuck up, sir.”

Barely suppressing a laugh, Nate turns his head and finds Brad’s mouth again, capturing it and thrusting his tongue deep, tracing the surfaces of Brad’s teeth and tongue, trailing along the roof before he catches Brad’s tongue. His hands keep sliding along the surface of Brad’s back, pressing him closer until all Nate can feel is Brad.

Brad breaks the kiss, moving in again with another, hard and bruising this time as he shifts, thrusting against Nate in the process. Nate bites at Brad’s lower lip and then tilts his head back as Brad pulls away again, moving to Nate’s neck once more. Nate’s hands skim Brad’s waistband again then push beneath it, fingers sliding along the top of Brad’s briefs. Brad stops sucking at Nate’s neck to breathe, panting roughly against his skin. “Killing me.”

“Not the verb I’m interested in, Sergeant.” Nate slides his hand past the briefs, fingers teasing along the crack of Brad’s ass. “Not even close.”

“Nate,” Brad grates out between his teeth, his hips rough against Nate’s. Even through the fabric of their uniforms Nate can feel the hard thrust of Brad’s cock sliding against his as they both seek out the friction, moving together. “Fuck. Nate.”

Nate presses against Brad’s ass and thrusts up at the same time, finger sliding down. Brad shudders and it takes everything in Nate not to come from the sensation. He strains up toward Brad, making a questioning sound as Brad shifts back and pulls away. “W-wh-" Brad shakes his head and shifts, sitting on the seat between Nate’s legs. It’s clear that Brad’s still turned on, his cock clearly visible against his pants, and Nate’s sprawled like some sort of cheap high school date on the back seat. “What the fuck?”

Brad tilts his head toward the window, struggling to control his breathing. Nate props himself up on his elbows and listens, cursing under his breath at the sound of voices. He grasps the edges of the seat and pulls himself into a sitting position, rubbing his face with his hands and wondering what he looks like as he glances over at Brad. Brad’s trying to be stoic, but his lower lip looks swollen and his cheekbones are flushed with color. He tugs his shirt over his head and clears his throat, rubbing under his nose. 

Nate scrambles for conversation, knowing that they both look guilty and if anyone approaches, they’ll need to sound like they were doing something other than writhing against each other, desperate to get off. “I put in another requisition for batteries.”

Brad turns to look at him, completely lost until realization sparks in his eyes. “Good. We’ll need them.”

“Hey, there you are.” Ray and Garza approach the Humvee, Walt bringing up the rear. Nate nods to them and then slips out his door, leaving Brad to deal with them. He’s more than willing to let the Iceman reputation do its work. As for him, all he wants is a private place and a few minutes alone, given that he’s not likely to get another chance alone with Brad soon enough to get rid of the erection he’s got.

**

Nate’s running, four miles down before reveille sounds. He’s sweating, feeling it run down his spine. His pack is maxed, 135 pounds weighing on his back and shoulders. Everything is sticking to his skin and his boots stir up the pale dust with every stride. He pushes harder as the bugle dies, moving past men as they fall in line. He keeps his mind unfocused on the run, keeping it on anything but the pounding of his feet, the burning in his lungs or the thought of Brad Colbert. 

He finishes ten miles in the time it takes most of the men to finish their five and he stands outside his tent breathing hard. He drops his pack to the deck and bends over, feeling the fabric of his uniform come loose from his skin. His limbs are unsteady, but he forces himself to stand up straight. Gunny’s standing a few feet in front of him, eyebrows raised inquisitively.

“If I’m running everyone leaves me alone,” Nate informs him, only slightly breathless. “If I’m jacking off, they all feel the need to ask me a question.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“You didn’t have to, Gunny. You never have to.” Nate rubs his fingers through his hair roughly, feeling the sweat go flying. “What now?”

“Schwetje wants to see all the company commanders.”

“Of course he does.” Nate sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “All right. I’m going.”

“You want to take a shower first? I’ll tell them you’re in the head?”

“No. No. Let’s get this over.” He falls in step with Gunny and heads toward the command tent. “What do you think?”

“I think if you’re going to run ten miles every time you get frustrated with this job, you’re going to be dead before we even hit the LOD.” Gunny shrugs. “But if you’re talking about the meeting, I think it’s going to be a lot of moto bullshit that he’s going to get half-wrong, and it’ll most likely be the half that gets us dead.”

“You’re a ball of sunshine, Gunny.”

“Call ‘em like I see ‘em, sir.” 

Nate laughs, tugging on his soft cover as they head to the command tent. Gunny spits into his bottle as they walk and Nate can’t help but glance at the motor pool. The sight of Brad’s Humvee sends a shiver along his spine and he forces his mind back to the moment at hand. Gunny keeps talking and Nate focuses on the words, pretty sure that, if he’s not careful, Brad Colbert is going to get him killed.

**

The head stinks to high heaven and Nate does his best to avoid it during the best of times. But right now, he’s pretty much at the end of his rope and completely incapable of another ten mile run. Instead, he grabs one of the magazines from his rucksack, trying not to laugh at the complete absurdity of hoping that some big-breasted woman pretending to finger herself is going to get his mind off the 6’4” Sergeant that currently has Nate’s brain spinning. Slamming the rolled up magazine against his leg, he grabs the door handle, freezing as it opens against his grip.

“Clearly someone is having fun fucking with me.”

Brad doesn’t say anything for a long moment then he exhales as his brow furrows. “An interesting turn of phrase, Lieutenant.”

“Brad.” Nate’s not sure if it’s really his voice, low and desperately wanting. He grabs Brad’s t-shirt and pushes him back into the latrine, snapping the lock to ‘occupied’. Brad doesn’t hesitate, unhooking Nate’s M4 and stowing it along with his own before unbuttoning Nate’s jacket. Nate bites his lower lip and watches Brad’s hands for a moment before reaching out, his own hands shaking and tugging Brad’s shirt from his pants. 

Brad ignores Nate’s shirt and wrenches his belt free, fabric slapping at Nate’s thigh as Brad’s fingers undo his fly. It’s controlled but frantic, urgent, and Nate can’t help but watch. Brad’s fingers are insanely long and tapered and the sudden thought of them inside him causes Nate’s cock to jerk against Brad. Brad doesn’t speak, just kisses Nate, his own personal attack force as he gets Nate free of his pants, shoving them down to the floor before wrapping his hand around Nate’s dick. 

“Fuck,” Nate groans, hips angling up into Brad’s touch. “Jesus, fuck.”

Brad’s free hand works at his own belt and pants, shoving them down. Nate helps, his hands trembling as they stroke over Brad’s black briefs, feeling him through the thin cotton. He shudders and looks at Brad, breathing hard. They don’t move and then Brad’s hand strokes him, rough and firm and Nate hisses, pushing Brad’s briefs out of the way and returning the favor, wrapping his own hand around Brad’s length.

Brad leans in, his arm against the wall and his forehead resting on it, his breath hot on Nate’s neck as he strokes Nate hard and fast. His hand is rough and callused, the ball of his hand stroking against the ridge of Nate’s cock. Nate closes his eyes, feeling everything, his free hand at the small of Brad’s back, holding him close. He can feel the steady pump of Brad’s fist against his own. “Brad.”

“What the fuck are we doing, sir?” Brad’s voice is unsteady, almost a laugh.

Nate groans. “Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

Brad growls in return. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m not…you’re…oh…fuck, yes.” Nate thrusts into Brad’s hand, burying his face against Brad’s shoulder. He gasps, inhaling Brad, his body drawn taut and sharp. “B-Brad.”

“Fuck, shut up, Nate.” Brad nips at Nate’s earlobe, short-circuiting Nate’s brain and sending him over the edge. He comes hard, entire body shuddering. Brad sucks Nate’s earlobe into his mouth, the pressure enough of a hint of what Brad’s mouth would feel like around him that Nate’s cock gives another jerk and his hand tightens, pushing Brad to orgasm as well.

Brad doesn’t move, his breath against Nate’s wet skin making Nate shiver. After a long moment, he pulls back and reaches for the roll of toilet paper, cleaning off his hand before offering some to Nate. Nate cleans himself up, feeling a hot flush stain his cheeks as he tucks himself back in his uniform. 

Brad looks at Nate, his face unreadable, his eyes dark. “You dropped your magazine, sir.”

Nate nods uselessly as Brad unlocks the door, grabs his rifle and disappears out of the head. After a moment, Nate picks up the magazine and looks at it, dropping it beside the commode as he picks up his rifle. He’s not going to be needing it again. After that, Hustler’s not going to come close to solving Nate’s problems.

**

Obviously Nate hallucinated the whole thing.

It’s the only thing he can figure, since Brad’s been all business. Nate’s beginning to wonder if they’re actually already at war and he hasn’t slept in days, and so he’s imagining things in some sort of crazed Ripped Fuel-induced insomniatic haze. Brad ignores him for the most part, spending his time with Ray and Poke working on the Humvees, and all his interactions with Nate are spare and direct. As much as it’s a relief not to need ten miles every morning to actually be able to think, Nate can’t help wondering if Brad was playing a game and Nate lost spectacularly. Thankfully, the camp’s filled with a stronger sense of urgency as the BBC broadcasts tell them that Saddam’s not backing down and Rumsfeld’s determined to go in, guns blazing.

Nate keeps his distance, careful to direct the majority of his information to Ray, knowing that there’s no better way to make sure everyone hears it. Brad just slouches on his rack or stares at his laptop, not making eye contact with Nate unless he’s specifically addressed. Nate doesn’t shy away from Brad, but he doesn’t engage him unnecessarily either. Every time they do talk, Brad’s eyes stay on Nate’s and Nate doesn’t look away. It’s too tempting to let his gaze stray down over Brad’s body and remember the feel of it against his hands. 

It’s been almost two weeks since it happened and Nate’s taken to hiding in the head and jerking off every night before lights out so he doesn’t dream about Brad. He’s trying to figure out when he turned into a lovesick girl, busy imagining Brad’s mouth around his cock when the thought occurs to him that maybe it wasn’t a game to Brad. Maybe it was a test and, forget the fact that Nate made it through BRC, he failed this test spectacularly. Not only did he lose his fucking cherry to Brad Colbert’s dangerous hands, not only does he still want Brad, but – if Brad’s silence and seeming withdrawal is any indication - it’s very possible he’s lost the respect of his lead victor.

“Fuck.” Nate groans under his breath and tucks himself back in his uniform, his erection fucked. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes. He’s going into a fucking war zone with the famed fucking Iceman of the Recon Marines who thinks he’s a pansy pushover. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He grabs his M4 and slams out of the head, storming back to his tent. There’s a shamal forecast and he wishes it would hit and give him something to rage against. As it is, he spends the evening resecuring tents and berating Marines who don’t know how to drive a stake into the fucking dirt, telling men that seem twice his size that if they could swing a sledgehammer half as well as they say they swing their dicks, they might keep their tents from collapsing. It doesn’t do much for morale and it doesn’t make him feel any better, but the grit in his eyes and in his teeth keeps his mind off all the shit he dumped in his own lap.

The next day, Bravo’s tent is still standing as he walks by on his way to Godfather’s command post, but he can see the swells of sand that let him know it wasn’t always that way. He wants to smirk, but he doesn’t take the time, merely nodding to Brad as he oversees the shoveling. He supposes he should just be grateful that his team actually managed the mess on their own instead of needing him to direct them. If he didn’t feel like he’d fucked everything up, he’d be grateful Brad’s in his company, but he’s not sure he can get to that Zen of a place just yet, especially since his cock gives a twitch every time he sees or hears Brad. 

He reports to Godfather, his brow furrowing as his gaze falls on the man in civvies standing uncomfortably to the side. Dread fills Nate’s gut and he listens with half an ear as Godfather talks. “We have an embedded journalist, and he’s going to ride with you.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’d rather not.”

Godfather nods and gestures toward the reporter with an incline of his head. “We have an embedded journalist, and he’s going to ride with you.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Nate glances at the reporter and holds out his hand. “Lieutenant Nate Fick.”

“Evan Wright. Rolling Stone.” 

Nate turns on his heel and starts to Bravo Company’s tent, assuming the reporter will fall in line with him. He does the perfunctory introduction, talking to Pappy and not looking around for Brad. He does his best to keep his eyes focused straight ahead, making himself scarce and leaving the reporter to the company. If he can’t survive the tent, there’s no way in hell he’ll make it through the war.

**

“Sir?”

Nate looks up from his sheaf of papers, his eyes going wide at the sight of Brad in the opening of his tent. Clearing his throat, Nate straightens. “What can I do for you, Brad?”

For a moment, the curve of Brad’s smile is sinful and Nate feels an answering tug at his dick. He doesn’t move, just keeps his gaze level on Brad. “We have a situation, sir. I thought I should apprise you of it.”

“A situation? Don’t tell me you guys ran the reporter off already?”

“No, sir. This is a little more serious.” Brad steps inside the tent and moves over to the pile of boxes Nate’s using as a table and chair. He sits opposite Nate, his long legs bent and his knees touching Nate’s. “Ray’s been injured, sir.”

“Injured?” Nate’s brows draw together. “We haven’t gone to war yet, Sergeant.”

“I’m aware of that, sir. However, that is the case, sir.”

The stiffness of Brad’s posture and tone force a sigh out of Nate and he rubs his forehead with the balls of his fingers. “Tell me.”

“Well, sir. Rudy’s camp stove malfunctioned and Ray got in the way.”

“He’s all right?”

“He’s not dead. And I managed not to kill any of them.”

“Right.” Nate glances at Brad. “And where did this happen, Sergeant?”

“In Bravo’s tent, sir.”

“Where, Sergeant?”

Brad blinks a few times then smiles again, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“There’s no need to beg, Sergeant.” Nate straightens and shuffles his papers until he finds an after-action report. “I just want to make sure that I have all the details correct. The men were operating the camp stove outside the tent and Corporal Person was…”

“Servicing his weapon, sir.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

Brad laughs at Nate’s dry tone and Nate can’t help but look up and smile. He meets Brad’s gaze and can’t quite look away. “Haven’t seen you around the camp. Are you turning into one of those officers, sir?” Brad’s eyes are intent on Nate. “Or have you been avoiding me?”

Nate shrugs and looks down at the paper, filling out the report with the requisite military bullshit. He’s passed on messages to anyone but Brad lately and he’s done his best to have Gunny Wynn or any other Marine present whenever they’ve been together. Not…avoiding. Self-preservation maybe. “You’re my lead, Brad. I can’t avoid you.”

“You’ve been all business then, sir.”

“As opposed to?” The words slip out before Nate realizes, the sudden touch of Brad’s fingers against his knee a quick reminder that they’re currently alone. He eases his hand away from Brad’s. “I think it best that we’re both all business, Sergeant. Now, I need to submit this report. Tell the men to keep their mouths shut or the whole fucking platoon will get NJP.”

Brad’s thumb rubs against the inside of Nate’s knee for a moment before he pulls his hand away. “Yes, sir.” He doesn’t move, his body crowding the small space. 

“We’re done, Sergeant.”

Brad’s eyebrows rise swiftly and he nods once, getting to his feet. “Yes, sir. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Nate closes his eyes then turns back to the report, trying to ignore Brad’s presence still in the tent. “Was there something else, Sergeant?”

Brad doesn’t speak for a long moment, and Nate refuses to look back. “No, sir. Nothing at all.”

As soon as he’s sure Brad’s gone, Nate gives in to the shiver he’s been suppressing from the feel of Brad’s gaze. He rubs his eyes and looks at the form in front of him. Willful perjury on the eve of war. God bless the Marine Corps.

**

He hands the form to Schwetje and stands at attention as he reads through it. “This happened?”

“Yes, sir. I observed it myself.” Nate informs him. “Fortunately, Doc Bryan was there and Corporal Person received swift attention and should be fine, sir.”

“You’ll tell them to be more careful.”

“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

“Okay.” Schwetje frowns at the paper and then glances up at Nate. “I’ll see if we can get you a new camp stove.”

“Thank you, sir. That won’t be necessary.” Nate nods and leaves the tent, surprised to see Brad standing there. Strictly business is going to be hard to maintain if Brad keeps showing up unexpectedly. “This war can start any damn day now.”

“Agreed, sir.” Brad falls in step with him. “I was thinking, sir, that I could take the reporter to the PX. Use his civilian status to our advantage and get a few supplies.”

“Yeah. Get as much as you can. See who wants to chip in. I’ve got some cash in my rack.” He heads toward his tent and squats down beside his bedroll, digging his cash out of his rucksack. “Is there anything besides batteries that we’re desperate for?”

“You mean besides everything else, sir?”

Nate laughs and straightens, turning around and finding Brad far too close. “Point, Sergeant.” He hands over his money and Brad looks at it for a moment before reaching out, his fingers sliding along Nate’s. “We’re not doing this, Brad.”

“I’m not doing anything, Lieutenant.” Brad’s thumb presses to Nate’s wrist and Nate knows he can feel the unsteadiness of his hurried pulse. “I’ll pick up some lotion. Don’t want everyone all chafed from those combat jacks.”

“I’m sure the men will thank you.” Nate eases his hand from Brad’s grip. “I have a debriefing to get to, Sergeant. Report in when you return from the Army post.”

“Yes, sir.” Brad glances toward the door of the tent and takes a step closer to Nate. His voice is low and rough, full of promise. “Nate.”

“Excuse me, Sergeant. I don’t want to keep Godfather waiting.” Nate maneuvers around him, heading for the blinding bright day. His soft cover is crumpled in his fist and he jams it on his head as he hits the sunlight, wishing this didn’t feel quite so much like he’s running away. He’s careful not to look back, instead nodding toward Gunny when he sees him and falling in step with him. He learned to compartmentalize in Dartmouth and he does it here, shoving Brad Colbert and the rest of the platoon to the back of his mind as he listens to Godfather. It’s the same bullshit every time with nothing like information. He knows they all feel as completely cut off as he does, save for Schwetje probably, but it gets worse with every report with the words twisted to sound like it’s something new.

Godfather dismisses them and he’s almost out the door when he hears his name. Dread boils in his stomach as he realizes Schwetje is standing next to Godfather, which can only be a dangerous proposition. He baldface lies his report and manages not to choke on the thought of commendations. He may not be the Iceman, but he manages stoicism through it all. Schwetje gives him a strange look, and Nate thinks for a minute that maybe the man isn’t as stupid as he looks, but it passes almost as soon as he thinks it. He thanks Godfather and leaves the tent, determined to put as much distance as he can get between himself and the command staff and, if he’s honest, his platoon.

**

The supplies boost everyone’s spirits and Brad looks a lot like Santa Claus with Ray as his demented elf as he passes them out. He’s grinning and Nate watches from just outside the tent as he tosses a package of adult diapers to Manimal. Q-Tip makes a crude comment that starts an entire riff on his redneck roots and Nate smiles. The problem with these idiots, he knows, is that they’re almost all too smart for his own good.

“Hey, LT.” Ray tosses him a bottle of lotion and Nate catches it handily. “You think this’ll work to lube up anything other than Rudy?”

“I wouldn’t know, Ray,” Nate hefts the bottle and then tosses it back. “You let me know when you’re done humping your hand.”

“No, sir.” Brad snatches the bottle from Ray and tosses it to Chaffin. “I’m sure he’ll be humping someone else’s hand. Remember, Ray, you don’t know where Chaffin’s been, but she was probably somebody’s sister.”

“More likely some farmer’s goat.”

“You’d know, Ray,” Walt tosses off. “Given Chaffin was in line right behind you, settling for sloppy seconds.”

“Ouch. Ouch, young Walt!” Ray stumbles backwards into Brad, slumping as Brad’s arms settle under Ray’s armpits. He clasps his hands over his heart. “You wound me.”

“Like we all wish we could, Ray.” Brad lets Ray go, smiling as he falls to the deck. Nate shakes his head and smiles, though he straightens as Brad’s gaze cuts to him. “Any word, LT?”

“Nothing yet. Just be ready, gentlemen.”

“We’re always ready,” Ray assures him. “We’re fucking Boy Scouts.”

Lilley laughs. “You probably are fucking Boy Scouts, brah.”

“Probably have a badge in it.” Walt adds.

Nate shrugs as he looks at Brad, watching him smile at the men like a benevolent king, overseeing all his fat, stupid princes. Nate wonders if that makes him a princess or worse, the court jester. No. Ray’s the court jester. He supposes he can take comfort in that at least. Brad turns in Nate’s direction and moves over to him, his arm at Nate’s elbow to guide him out of the tent while the conversation they leave behind gets dirtier and more graphic.

“We’re not exactly Ivy League.”

“More like back alley,” Nate agrees. 

“But at least we’re harmless.”

Nate laughs. “He says of the trained killing machines.”

“Okay, relatively harmless.” Brad locks his hand around his wrist behind his back. “The call’s going to come down soon.”

“I don’t think Saddam’s going to back down, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, sir. That’s not what I’m asking.” Brad kicks at the sand and sighs heavily. “You and I, sir.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following, Sergeant.”

“I just want to make sure that you and I are okay, sir.”

“I’m unaware of any reason we wouldn’t be, Sergeant.” Nate keeps his eyes straight ahead, focusing on the fence. 

“You are.” 

Nate knows it’s not a question, but he nods at Brad anyway. Looking at him is a mistake, because Brad looks somewhere between frustrated and furious. “Yes.”

“I see.” Nate sees Brad’s jaw hitch, grinding his words out. “Good. That’s good. I’m glad to hear it, sir.”

“I think we’ll make a cohesive team, Sergeant. The men like and respect you, as do I. I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t achieve our objectives and work well together. Assuming, of course, you have no problem with my leadership.”

“No, sir. None at all, sir.”

“Excellent.” Nate stops and looks at Brad, sure that the bullshit is written all over his face. “Keep Ray away from the cooking equipment until we ship out, maybe.”

“I will.” Brad’s face is set, empty. Nate searches his eyes, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing if he sees anything, it’s not going to be good. Brad looks directly at Nate. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Of course, Sergeant.”

“We’re not through.”

Nate’s eyes widen briefly and then he tilts his head, question clear in his stance. “I wasn’t aware we started, Sergeant.”

“Yes you were, sir. And if you weren’t, then maybe I need to refresh your memory.” It’s clearly a threat - they’re in the open, which is the only thing that keeps Nate from taking a step back from the fierce expression on Brad’s face. “Do I?”

“No.” Nate swallows hard and meets Brad’s gaze. “You don’t need to do anything, Sergeant. In fact, I think it would be best for both of us if you didn’t do anything. We’re heading into a war zone. I need your head in the game.”

“Funny.” Brad’s voice sends heat flooding through Nate, the initial pulse low in his groin. “I’d lay odds that you want my head in you, Lieutenant. You want to take me up on that bet?”

“I’ll bet, Sergeant, that you have duties to attend to.” Nate doesn’t look away from Brad’s face, though his voice is dry as dust and his chest is tight. He steps close to Brad then passes him by. “As do I.”

**

Gunny and Nate are headed to Schwetje’s tent at a fast clip when one of the guys tells them there’s pizza waiting. Gunny gives Nate a look and Nate curses under his breath, stalking off in the direction of the line of Marines. Schwetje’s at one of the tables, stuffing his face as Nate approaches him. Nate has to draw on reserves of calm to manage not to kill his CO, settling for scraping the maps off the table and walking away. 

“We’re going to get killed by fucking incompetence,” Nate mumbles, heading for Bravo’s tent. Gunny smirks beside him and Nate glares in his direction. “Am I wrong?”

“No, sir.” Gunny shakes his head. “I’ll go grab Colbert and the rest of the team leaders. Get the boys on the stick and see if we can’t get this shit ready to go by sundown.”

“Forty-eight hours. And he was going to tell us tomorrow.” Nate rips off his soft cover as he enters the tent. “Eating his fucking pizza.”

“You want some pizza, LT?”

Nate glares at Gunny again. “Just gather the troops.”

Gunny laughs. “Yes, sir.”

Nate slumps against the boxes, shoving aside a skin mag and looking at the maps. They’re familiar already from Brad’s Blue Force, but it’s still nice to hold the damn things in his hands. He was beginning to think they were going to head into war without them. He traces the path they’re projected to follow, remembering his discussion with Brad. Surprise is the only thing that’s going to work for them in this, if they even still have that on their side.

“Kuwaitis make some fucked up pizza,” Garza bitches as he walks into the tent, shoving half a piece in his mouth. Nate’s stomach grumbles at the smell and he wishes he’d told Gunny to grab him something. The guys filter in behind him, still in the process of wolfing down their food, some of them with boxes in their hands. Ray and Brad come in just before Gunny, and Ray’s got sauce smeared across the lower half of his face. 

Nate blinks. “Ray, did no one ever teach you to eat?”

“Only thing he knows how to do right is suck on his Mama’s tit, sir,” Lilley informs him. “Marines told him he couldn’t do that no more, so he’s got to make do.”

“All right, all right.” Nate holds up a hand and the laughing group falls silent. He can feel the excitement humming in the air. “Colbert, Espera. Pappy. Lovell. Maps of the AO. Brad, pretend you’re not ahead of us the rest of us so no one gets an inferiority complex.”

“Brad can’t help that, LT,” Ray mumbles around a mouthful of pizza.

“Damn straight,” Poke adds. “Everyone gets an inferiority complex around Brad.”

Nate passes out the maps, ignoring the banter. “I’m pretty sure Brad puts his pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us.”

“Yeah, but he’s got to tuck his cock too,” Ray reminds them. “So it’s gotta count as a third.”

Nate feels a flush stain the back of his neck in memory as he slaps his map down on the boxes. “Well, let’s hope the Sergeant isn’t freeballing then. Now, gentlemen, I want the team leaders to learn this. We’ve got a lot of ground that we’re going to cover before we get to the Euphrates, and I want my drivers and my team leaders on top of things. I realize we should have had the maps weeks ago, but we’ve got them now, so make use of them. Also, General Mattis issued the warning order, so we should expect the call within the next 48 hours. We got the word late, but I don’t want us caught with our pants around our ankles again. I expect everything loaded and ready to go by o’dark hundred. We are First Recon Marines, gentlemen. Let’s prove it.” ‘Oorah’ echoes around him along with the obligatory shouts of ‘Get some’ and ‘Fuck yeah’. Nate smiles at Brad without thinking and Brad smiles back, his eyebrow going up suggestively. Nate feels another blush and he picks up his map, slapping it against his thigh. “They’re all yours, Sergeant.”

Brad nods and salutes him. “Thank you, sir.”

**

The Humvees are set to go and Nate surveys them with a sense of pride. Alpha and Charlie are still getting their gear stowed even with a head start and Bravo’s ready to roll. 

“PFM, LT.” Brad assures him as Ray and Trombley stow the last of their gear. “Even the reporter is set.”

“I admire your aptitude, Sergeant.”

“Is that all you admire, sir?” Brad gives him an honest grin and Nate has to laugh. “Come on. Maybe my dashing good looks? My muscled body?” He bats his lashes. “My gorgeous come-hither eyes?”

“Your clothes sense is pretty impressive.” Nate grins. “Who does your tailoring?”

“Uncle Sam.” Brad glances to Nate’s Humvee and then to his own. “Any idea when we’re Oscar Mike?”

“Not really. The captain hadn’t planned to say anything until the briefing tomorrow, so it could be as late as tomorrow afternoon or evening. No one knows. Enjoy civilization while you can.”

“I’m pretty sick of civilization, to be honest, sir. I think all of us are.”

“Yeah.” Nate scuffs the ground with the toe of his boot then glances at Brad. “Still, you should at least finish your pizza. I saw there was one in your rack.”

Brad looks at him, confused, and then laughs. “That one’s not mine, sir. That’s for you. It’s cold, but it’s all yours.”

“You got me a pizza?”

“You could use a little meat on your bones, sir. Like you said, enjoy civilization while you can.”

Nate can’t help his smile. “You got me pizza.”

“Shut up and go eat.” Brad shoves him in the direction of the nearly empty tent. “Sir.”

**

The MOPP suits bring groans and the look on everyone’s face when he answers Poke’s question about Cas-Evac seems to bring the reality of it all home to them. Of course, the gravity of the situation is broken when Brad pulls his suit out. “Woodland camouflage? Anyone happen to remember we’re invading a fucking desert country?”

Nate gives him a look and Brad cocks an eyebrow, making Nate wonder if he just told Brad to drop it or if he promised retribution later. Either way, he watches them get suited up and dismisses them to their Humvees to move out before opening his own MOPP. Brad trails behind, waving off Ray when he starts to ask him a question. Ray rolls his eyes and wraps his arm around the reporter, asking him about the quality of pussy a Rolling Stone writer gets compared to a Hustler writer.

“It’s like Ray has a new playmate.” Nate opens his suit, smirking at the greens and browns. “You know his article is going to be all about Ray and how the Marines are employing a bunch of psychotic, hyped up idiot savants.”

“Better that than he writes about Trombley just being psychotic.” Brad watches as Nate tugs the suit on. “I see we’re using the same tailor now. That green really brings out your eyes.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, I ordered them this way just for that reason.” Nate tugs on the suspenders, adjusting the fit. “You should join your men.”

“I want to talk to you.”

“This isn’t one of those things where you tell me you’ve decided to become a conscientious objector and aren’t really going to fight, is it?”

“Does that happen to you a lot, Lieutenant?”

“No, but the way this has gone so far, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Nate tugs up the arms of the suit and closes it up before looking at Brad again. “Talk.”

“I’ve served with most of those guys for a while now, sir. Through Afghanistan and a lot more shit besides. They’re good men.”

“I know that.”

“I know you do and I want you to know that I appreciate that you do know that. Trust us to do our jobs, sir, and we won’t let you down.”

Nate exhales and nods. “Thank you. I hope I won’t let you down either.”

“You won’t.”

“And because the famed Iceman says it, it must be so?” Nate smiles, surprised at how relaxed he is, on the brink of war and alone with Brad. He feels alive again after six weeks of training, even more so as Brad takes a step closer. “I have to admit, I wasn’t sure what you were going to say.”

“No?” Brad slides his hand along the side of Nate’s neck and pulls him in, kissing him hard and swift. Nate barely has time to react before he’s gone again, halfway across the room in the way that only Brad’s long strides can manage. “What were you expecting?”

“I don’t…that, maybe?” Nate rubs his mouth, feeling the burning imprint of Brad’s kiss. “You need to stop doing that.”

“I haven’t done that for a long time, sir. Longer than I’d like.” 

“We’re going to war, Brad.”

“Yes, sir. And I would venture to say that I’m going to have my fair share of combat jacks during this war.” He smiles wolfishly and lets his gaze run down Nate’s body. “I won’t be needing any of the reporter’s Hustler back issues.”

“Brad…”

“Don’t worry, sir. I’m not going to let you get me killed.” He moves closer again and Nate can’t help but meet him halfway. His body is keyed up on excitement and arousal and he knows better, but that doesn’t keep his feet still.

“We’re not doing this, Brad.”

“No, sir.” Brad crowds him, breath fanning over Nate’s parted lips. “We’re not.”

“We’re not,” Nate agrees as Brad pulls away from him, heading for the door.

“Not yet.”

Nate groans under his breath and trails Brad out of the tent, grabbing his Kevlar and M4 as he goes. The victors are lined up and ready to go and the men are gathered in front of them, waiting to fall in. Nate catches up with Brad and moves past him, hurrying to his position. Brad mutters something under his breath about Nate’s ass and Nate ignores him, managing not to stumble or make a fool out of himself. He’d congratulate himself on the fact if he wasn’t so sure it was the first time in a long time he’s actually succeeded at it.

**

“We’re an elite fighting force trained for everything but what we’re about to do in the way we’re about to do it, going up against a citizenry who may or may not welcome us fighting people who may or may not look like soldiers.” Nate nods at the report and gives Gunny a knowing look. “So I get to go tell a bunch of Marines that no one knows who they’re supposed to be shooting at.”

“Sounds about right, sir. Pretty much standard warfare since Vietnam.” Gunny spits into his bottle. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll all just stand there, fully uniformed and in a line for us to pick off like sitting ducks.”

“I don’t have that kind of luck.” Nate informs him wryly. “Everyone has their cami-nets up?”

“Yes, sir. Everyone’s good to go.”

“Right.” Nate inhales the dry, dusty air and looks at Gunny. “How many times can I get away with saying this comes straight from command before it sounds like I’m a pussy?”

“If it’s stupid, sir, just blame it on the captain, sir. No one will doubt you.”

“It can’t really all be his fault, can it?”

Gunny gives him a shrewd look. “Don’t make any bets on that, sir. Besides, even if it isn’t, the men will believe it is. It’s a win-win.”

“And the fact that the ROE sound like we want to walk into an ambush or get killed by any Iraqis smart enough not to wear their uniforms?”

“Like I said, sir. Sounds like the military to me.” Gunny clasps his hand on Nate’s shoulder. “Just give ‘em the speech, sir. You’ll make it sound good, put the fear of Godfather into ‘em and we’ll go blow some shit up.”

“You mean liberate a country, Gunny.”

“Right. Yeah.” Gunny grins. “That too.”

Nate gives him a look and heads over to where Bravo is already gathered. Their woodland camouflage MOPP suits look ridiculous in the bright sunlight and soak up the heat. Nate can feel the sun beating on his shoulders like a meat tenderizer. All of his men look at him, serious and trusting and he feels a swell of pride. There are good men in all of the First Recon, the best men, but Nate can’t help but feel that when you brush away all the loud mouthed bullshit, he has the best of the best. 

He looks at them all, twenty-two men, and meets each set of eyes individually. Nate’s led men before, but not these men, not like this. He knows they respect his rank. He needs them to respect him. 

“You’re being called upon to kill.” He doesn’t mince words, telling them what to expect from what little they know. Most of them were in Afghanistan, and he’s relatively sure that this is going to be nothing like that. Afghanistan felt cohesive, search and destroy, planned like a covert op. This feels disjointed and thrown together, but even so, the men look back at him without fear or hesitation despite the uncertainty of the enemy, with the knowledge that they’re likely going in alone. None of this is what First Recon does, but they’ll do it, because it needs to be done.

The gas warning sends them all scrambling for cover and, even in his own haste, Nate keeps an eye on his company, watching as they move with precision. The reporter stumbles, but Nate isn’t responsible for him, so he just heads to his Humvee on Gunny’s heels. He hears the all clear and looks back to see Brad, Garza and Doc standing over him. 

“What do you think, Gunny?”

“I think that reporter probably has a better chance of surviving in Iraq than Captain Schwetje does.”

Nate manages not to laugh, but he can’t quite hide his smile. “Yeah, well, Captain Schwetje probably has more to worry about from friendly fire than anything the Iraqis can throw at him.” 

“There is that, sir.” Gunny grins and sits down in the passenger seat of the Humvee. “You going to take Sergeant Colbert along to the briefing with Godfather?”

“Yeah. I want Brad to know what we’re riding into, since he’s going to be on point. I trust his instincts.”

“He’s a steady hand. The men look at him for guidance. He’ll be cool under pressure.” Gunny nods. “He’ll respect and defer to you too, sir, which is the other thing you’ll need from him. But remember, just because they call him Iceman, don’t mistake that he doesn’t need to blow it off from time to time.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, Gunny.”

“Yeah.” Gunny grins and spits into the dirt. “I’ll be assured, sir.”

Nate rolls his eyes. “I’ll see you at the briefing.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

**

Nate listens to Godfather, wondering when the man is actually going to say something that will give them something to work with. It’s mostly the same bullshit talk they’re hearing on the radios – all talk and no balls behind it – and he can feel Brad’s annoyance on the back of his neck. It doesn’t help that Patterson looks as disgusted with it all as Nate feels and isn’t making any secret of it as Nate sees Brad glance at Alpha’s Captain.

They move out behind Patterson once they’re dismissed, heading back for Bravo with Gunny and Kocher behind them. Brad’s not any happier once they can speak freely, his disgust thick in his voice. “We’re getting ready to invade a country, and this is what our leader offers us. Moustaches.”

Nate’s well aware of the irony as he speaks. “I trust you, Brad, to keep your personal feelings to yourself.” He’s careful not to look at him, knowing full well that everyone around them feels the same as Brad. The thing that scares Nate most is that Schwetje seems to be the only one thinking along those same lines as Godfather, and that might mean they’re more screwed than Nate thinks.

Speaking of, Schwetje stops them to get their opinion on his duct taped windows and Nate does everything he can to keep his mouth shut. It helps when Gunnery Sergeant Greigo comes up and gives Brad an outlet for his irritation, though it’s only likely to make things worse in the long run. Still, Nate’s pretty sure Brad’s fine just stirring the pot with everyone, which makes Nate wonder if that’s just what Brad’s doing with him. 

Of course, with everyone else, Brad’s issue seems to be incompetence. With Nate, he just seems to be intent on fucking with Nate’s head. Nate’s thankful for the difference if only because he hopes it means that Brad thinks he’s not a complete and utter fuckup. He shakes that thought off – Brad and fucking in any sense of the word is not something he needs to focus on right now – as Captain McGraw comes up to them. Just another sign of the inability of the Marines to communicate when he calls back to Captain Schwetje about the armor escort.

“We got word a couple hours ago. We’re not getting escort tanks or Cobras going over the border.”

Nate wants to scream. Instead he just shifts, as if he can contain his anger if he moves. “Any reason you waited until now to tell me about this?”

Schwetje shrugs and Nate turns almost slowly and strides off, his gait angry enough to keep up with even Brad’s long stride. His control slips and he nods disbelieving. “We’ve lost our armor escort. We get no ass going over the LOD. That’s a low priority to pass on?”

“Personal feelings, sir.”

Nate glares at Brad, wondering if it’s physically possible to kick his ass. Not that Nate should or would, but the temptation to shove his personal feelings up Brad’s… Nate forces his mind back to the moment, meeting Brad’s smirking gaze as McGraw melts down. Kocher looks longingly in the direction of the rest of Bravo company, and Nate knows some people have it worse.

“Have your men sleep while they can, Brad. Who knows when they’ll have another solid chance.”

“Yes, sir.” Brad rocks back on his heels and looks toward the line of camouflaged Humvees. “Let slip the dogs of war.”

“Brad…”

“Eighteen hundred, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re about to invade a country, Nate. Risk life and limb in support of a democratically elected government, to uphold the constitution and free a nation from an oppressive dictator who has WMDs and no problem with a little genocide.” Brad turns to look at Nate, the sunlight washing out his eyes. “Meet me at eighteen hundred.”

“This isn’t Mathilda, Brad, and whatever this is…”

“Nate.” Brad cuts him off sharply. “Once we cross the LOD, it’s on. We’re ass deep in our jobs, artillery and whatever the fuck else the throw at us. You say we’re not doing this, and I say we’re not done, but there’s also a chance we’re going to get dead. So meet me at eighteen fucking hundred. Sir.”

“Where?”

“You’re a Recon Marine. Figure it out.”

Nate watches Brad walk away, completely unclear on what just transpired. Whatever it was though, Brad is right and beyond that, whatever it is, Nate knows he wants it.

**

He finds Brad in the back of a supply truck, his fingers trailing over stockpiles of ordinance. It’s stifling in the truck; something beyond the sour sweat smell that Nate is beginning to think lives at the back of his throat. “I’m pretty sure Ray would be forced to say something about phallic symbols if he saw you fondling those, Sergeant.”

“Ray would say something about phallic symbols if he was swimming in a sea of pussy.” Brad turns and hoists himself on a box of Claymores. “You’re late.”

“Half the men here can’t find their asshole with a map. I found mine without one.”

Brad laughs, the sound thick in the heated air. “Is that what I am, sir?”

“It’s one of the myriad of names I’ve called you.” Nate’s not sure if the look on Brad’s face is offended or amused. “Not all of them have been so complimentary.”

“Come here.”

It’s a flat-out order from a subordinate, but Nate goes anyway. Brad’s hand settles on Nate’s shoulder, guiding him in close, standing between Brad’s spread legs. Nate settles his hands on Brad’s thighs as if to steady himself, but the feel of Brad’s body against his palm makes him more unsteady than anything.

“It’s going to be the shit in there, sir. We’re going in in sardine cans without supplies, loaded for bear with no ass to support us. There’s barely going to be time to think, sir, so I sure as fuck don’t need to be thinking about you.” Brad’s fingers trail up Nate’s arms. “Get the fuck out of my head, LT.”

“Your head?” Nate almost laughs, catching the sound before it has the chance to turn hysterical. 

“What do you want from me, sir? Because your orders aren’t clear at all.”

“I’m not giving you orders, Brad.”

“What are you giving me then? What do you want, because I can’t fucking figure it out, Nate. I think I know. I think I’ve got it figured out and then you…” He breaks off and shakes his head. “I think you want me. I think that’s what this is all about, sir, but I’m just a Marine, and I’m not supposed to think, so maybe you should tell me. Am I right, sir?”

“You started this. You…All I wanted was for you to realize that there’s more out there, still out there.”

“You’re out there, sir.”

Nate shakes his head as well, closing his eyes to sort through the tumble of information, confusion in his head. “No. Yes. No. I…I mean…” Nate swallows hard. “I’m not giving you orders, Sergeant.”

“I think you are, sir, but maybe you’re not aware of it.” His gaze drops to Nate’s mouth and Brad licks his lips. “Of course, generally I’m alone out there with my team, so maybe I’ll just interpret them to the best of my ability.” Brad slides off the Claymores, his body pressed against Nate’s. His gaze goes directly to Nate’s mouth. “I’m going to jerk you off.” He says the words softly, his hands moving between them to work at Nate’s MOPP suit. “Tight and fast and hot and I’m going to hear you say my name like you did the last time.”

“Brad. Fuck.” He barely stifles his groan as Brad’s hand snakes past the protective clothing, intent on his objective.

“Not quite like that, Nate.” The way he says his name make Nate shudder, the movement followed by a more vicious shake as Brad’s hand slips past Nate’s briefs to wrap around his dick. “But you’re getting there.”

Nate kisses Brad just to shut him up, groaning at the taste of him. Nate’s not a fan of the taste of tobacco, but sucked off Brad’s tongue, he’s not sure he can get enough. His fingers fumble with Brad’s MOPP suit, his dexterity gone to shit at the feel of Brad’s fingers curled around him. The Velcro sounds loud in the empty truck, but Nate’s absolutely sure he doesn’t care when he slides his palm down Brad’s length.

“We’re fucked if there’s a gas attack,” Brad laughs huskily as his thumb slides over the head of Nate’s cock. “All kinds of dirty.”

Nate laughs as well, the sound rough. He leans in, resting heavily on Brad’s shoulder. He strokes down Brad’s dick again then, thumb against the base of it, he slips his fingers down and cups Brad’s balls.

Brad groans just below Nate’s ear, the sound hot on his skin. “Christ, LT. Again.”

Nate squeezes again, rubbing the silky, taut skin. He feels Brad groan again and turns his head, meeting Brad’s mouth with his own. Bringing his fingers back to Brad’s cock, he resumes stroking, the action causing Brad to tighten his own hand, moving it in the same steady rhythm as Nate.

Brad’s free hand holds the back of Nate’s neck, keeping him from pulling away from the kiss. When they finally break apart, Nate’s mouth feels bruised and swollen. He shifts closer, pushing at Brad’s uniform until he can feel Brad against him. He adjusts his hand, wrapping it around both of them.

“Fuck.” It’s part sigh and part moan, buried in Nate’s mouth as Brad kisses him again. Nate grips harder, skin against skin, slick flesh hot and hard. Brad slides his hands to Nate’s lower back, guiding him the few steps back across the small aisle before pinning Nate to a stack of boxes. Leaning into him, Brad assaults him with searing, bruising kisses that steal Nate’s breath, though his hand never falters. Brad’s famed control slips, his breathing heavy and ragged. His mouth grazes Nate’s jaw, teeth nipping at the skin. “Fuck. Christ, Nate.”

Nate’s hand slides up to the heads, fingers riding the hard ridge. Brad’s breath stutters and Nate can’t breathe at all as he comes, shuddering through his orgasm. Brad moans hot and low, his own orgasm coating Nate’s hand.

“Fuck.” Nate sways in against Brad, gasping. His body feels wrung out and exhausted, and he’s afraid if he doesn’t move, he’ll stay right here forever.

“This is gonna be a long, goddamned war.” He looks up at Brad’s words and frowns, not sure he’s capable of more. “If we do this on the drive, we’re both going to tend up dead.” He trails his fingers along Nate’s jaw. “So you’re right. We’re not doing this.”

Nate eases his hand from between them, causing Brad to gasp and his cock to jerk against Nate. Nate can’t move, still pinned to the boxes by Brad’s body. He knows his face is flushed, hot with embarrassment.

“Nate.” Brad rests a finger beneath Nate’s chin, tilting his head up so he’s looking Brad in the eye. Whatever else he’s about to say is cut off by the cries echoing through the air, shouting a gas warning. The both react instinctively, masks on and hiding swollen lips as they slap the MOPP suits back into place. They hurry out of the truck, heading for the platoon at a run.

Nate ends up next to Gunny under their cami-net, trying not to breathe too quickly, the stale plastic-scented air of his mask burning his lungs. His heart is racing and he can feel his palm still slick inside his glove. He doesn’t look over toward Brad’s victor as they wait out the attack. Gunny glances at him from time to time, and Nate ignores him until the all clear sounds.

“You okay?”

Nate nods as he jerks off his gloves, digging in the Humvee for a baby wipe from their stash and scrubbing at his hands. “Just ready to go.”

“Amen to that, sir.” Gunny pushes his Kevlar back. “Everyone’s got fresh batteries for the Pec-fours and Pec-thirteens as well as the thermals. Not going to last us long, but we’ll start out seeing where we’re going.”

The radio squawks and Nate listens, moving over to respond. He looks at Gunny and nods as the battalion moves swiftly to action, rolling up the cami-nets. Getting on the radio himself, Nate calls out to his teams. Two hours and they’re Oscar Mike. 

Welcome to Iraq.

**

Nate doesn’t think in-country. He can’t think because he’s fairly certain right off the bat that it’s contrary to orders. So even the enforced closeness of the constant TL meetings and the regular sound of Brad’s voice through the comms don’t register beyond the fact that it’s Brad and Nate trusts him. There are down times where it would be easy to find Brad and spend time with him, but Nate knows that the other men need Brad more than he does, more than he’s allowed to. He still watches though, seeing the way Brad handles his men and handles his orders, wondering what it takes to be like ice, cold and cool in every situation.

Not that Brad is that. Time and again, Nate sees the cracks in the façade, the fissures that emit heat like some sort of underground hot spring. Steam sizzling in Brad’s blue eyes, sometimes just directed at the complete fucked-up situation and other times directed specifically at Nate. The fact that Brad’s disappointed in him weighs on Nate more than he wants to admit. He trusts Brad’s judgment, but Nate’s the man in the middle – between command and the men who do the actual fighting - and so he gets the worst of both worlds.

That changes at Al Kut more than anywhere else. He feels absolute certainty as he races from victor to victor, whizzing bullets passing danger close. He’s sure they’re going to die from someone’s complete ineptitude and he’ll be fucked if it’s going to be his.

Brad comes up to him afterwards, standing silently for a long moment before he slams Nate against the side of his Humvee and presses close enough to him that Nate can smell him over the sweat and dust and MOPP suit. “You stay in your goddamn fucking truck, sir.”

Nate looks at him, staring into the impossible blue of Brad’s eyes, shadowed with concern and fear and adrenaline. “You’d be dead.”

“That’s my job.”

“Well, my job is to keep you alive.” He shifts in Brad’s grip, their bodies rubbing together through the layers of clothing. Nate closes his eyes, feeling the hard press of Brad’s body, half-hard from excitement and cheating death. “I take my work very seriously.”

Brad laughs and pushes away, his eyes on Nate’s lower lip, causing Nate to suck it into his mouth. Brad shakes his head, his voice rough. “You’re killing me, sir.”

“No dying, Sergeant. Not on my watch.” He licks his lips and listens to the LAVs come up on them, moving past Bravo Three toward the bridge. “Better get back to your team. We’re going to be Oscar Mike as soon as the LAVs are through.”

“Yes, sir.” Brad turns, following orders, starting across the field.

“Brad?”

“Yeah?”

Nate watches him turn around, finding it hard to breathe. “I’m sorry.”

“No, sir. You were following orders.”

**

The rest of the time is a blur of bad decisions and blind ambition that Nate sees through red-rimmed eyes. He’s hungry and sleep deprived, doing his best to make sure as little shit as possible rolls down to his Marines. The problem is that there’s too much shit to go around, and Nate’s already drowning in it. He divorces himself from everything as much as he can, leaving nothing left but the skeleton of keeping his men alive and hoping that his entire career doesn’t come crashing down on his head.

In the end, he’s pretty sure he gives that up too the night above the amusement park on the Tigris, arguing with Schwetje. The reporter and Brad listen to his side of the conversation while trying to appear impassive, even though Nate can’t manage that. Too many contradictory, inexplicable, ill-advised and absurd orders have taken their toll and he’s beginning to think the only possible reason for any of this is to deliberately get them all killed, and the fact that they’ve managed to get this far without an actual death has just been pure dumb luck and command underestimating the skill of his platoon. 

Nate looks out at the city, the flames and tracers flying, the pitch black below. “More aggressive?” It’s not really a question, but he doesn’t know how else to phrase it. He’s not even actually sure he’s heard Schwetje correctly.

“Godfather says it’s time for us to increase our presence.”

“Sir, given the level of disorder in the city at this time, and given our lack of a cohesive mission, I’m going to have my men remain in a defensive position until dawn when we’ll move on the park.” He can feel Brad looking at him, but Nate keeps his gaze straight ahead. He’s tired – physically, mentally, emotionally – and even more, he’s tired of the completely fucked intent to send himself and his men into the face of death with shit night-optics and no fucking reconnaissance.

“Negative. Godfather…”

“Hitman, having assessed the situation from close observation, I’m going to keep my men in a defensive posture until dawn. How copy?”

“Hitman two, I say again…”

He hot mikes the radio without another word and exhales, emotions thick at the back of his throat. He still doesn’t look at Brad. “They want me to be more aggressive.” He finally turns, though he doesn’t really see Brad. He can’t see anything past the anger boiling under his skin. “Send the men into this. For what? So I can come home with twenty-one men instead of twenty-two? For what?” 

Emotion threatens to overwhelm him and he turns away, back to the city. Brad’s voice is soft in the darkness. “I trust your judgment, sir.”

Nate looks at him for a long moment, pushing everything down. Brad’s words remind him of why he said what he said, why he’s taking his stand. His men deserve someone willing to fight for them while they’re fighting for everyone else. Nate looks away. “Or I could be wrong. A platoon commander’s situational awareness doesn’t extend very far.”

“Far enough, sir.”

He looks back at Brad and Brad holds his gaze. He raises his eyebrows slightly and Nate nods. Whatever this is – this thing between them – it’s not more than what they are right here and right now. Warriors doing the job they have to do. Brothers keeping each other alive in the darkness. Whatever is bad out there in the park below will be bad in the morning, he’s learned that quickly out here, but at least in the morning, they’ll be able to see it coming. 

**

The last few days are spent with all of them trying to reconcile what they’ve seen and done and heard. News reports make their efforts seem even more futile and the escalations in fighting are almost like a mockery. Still, they all have to live with themselves, which means Doc Bryan and the rest of the platoon spend hours trying to treat the wounded without giving away that they’re just as likely to die with the bandages the Marines give them as they are with the filthy rags and cotton they’ve stuffed into open wounds. They bring water that gets turned away and Brad tries to make it all right by blowing up unexploded ordinance like he has some experience in detonation. 

Nate pulls Brad off his self-assigned mission, orders him off of it and faces the look Brad gives him. He knows the feeling. They’re Marines, the elite among the Marines at that, and they’re not used to feeling useless, helpless. They’re not used to what feels like failure, and they’re not used to feeling like the bad guys.

Nate finds Brad at the foot of the bleachers of the soccer stadium, staring out at the grass, the verdant green shredded by Humvee tracks. Brad doesn’t look up, doesn’t move at all, just sits there, his wrists draped over his knees. “This isn’t what we’re supposed to do, sir.”

“Nothing we’ve done here is, Sergeant.” Nate sits next to him, copying his posture, shoulder brushing Brad’s. “I understand.”

“But you still stopped me.”

“Your safety is my priority, Brad. We can’t clean up the mess we made.”

“All due respect, sir, but then maybe we shouldn’t have made the fucking mess.”

“That’s not ours to decide. We do our job, follow orders.” Nate shifts slightly, his knee swaying toward Brad, their hands brushing. “We’re warriors. They’re bureaucrats and politicians.” Nate doesn’t say anything for a long moment, wondering if Brad would actually classify him as a warrior rather than the other. “You know fuck all about detonation.”

“I did just fine the first time.”

“First time lucky. I happen to like you with all your parts as they are, Sergeant.” Brad gets to his feet and Nate shivers slightly at the change in the air. He looks up, squinting into the fading sun and his brow wrinkles as Brad smiles. “What?”

“I bet I can think of a few other places you’d like certain of my parts. Sir.” 

Nate nearly chokes as Brad walks away, unable to keep from smiling. It doesn’t last long though, and once they reach Ad Diwaniyah, Nate can’t feel anything at all. There are too many people needing things he can’t deliver, orders that don’t make sense and contradict. He remembers gunfire and mortars and the distant sound and the insistent smell of death. Everything else might be a dream or a nightmare, possibly both all at once.

**

Nate avoids the football game, not willing to give himself an opportunity to unleash any of the pent up aggression that’s crawling like a caged tiger in his stomach. It would be far too easy to find himself up on charges, and he’d rather settle for getting out of here with something salvaged. Still, he watches from the sidelines, far enough away that no one can try to drag him into it, but close enough that the insults and the accusations are still too easily heard.

“DD40s in triplicate, sir.” Brad taps Nate’s arm with a clipboard, the thin onionskin papers rattling in the light breeze. “Trombley and Hasser are finishing up with the rest of them.” He glances out at the field, watching as Patterson goes after Schwetje. His eyebrows shoot up and he looks over at Nate.

“I’m not getting involved,” Nate informs him softly. 

“Just out of curiosity, sir, if you did, would you pull them apart or help Captain Patterson?”

Nate looks at Brad, saying as much as he can without saying a word. Brad likes to push his buttons. He’s learned that in more ways than one over the last two and a half months. “I have something for you.”

“Yeah? More forms to fill out?”

“Not exactly.” Nate reaches into his pocket and pulls out a MRE, handing it over to Brad. “Don’t ask me how I got this.”

“Is it classified?” Brad takes the silver pouch from Nate’s hand and smiles. “Holy shit. This is jalapeño and cheese.”

“That it is.”

“This is like contraband, sir. Black market shit.” 

“It’s not exactly pound cake, Brad.”

“Fuck pound cake, sir.” Brad’s still smiling, his lip curved in a wry grin. “Pound cake is foreplay, sir. Jalapeño and cheese is the fucking come shot.”

“I will…never eat jalapeño and cheese again.” 

“I don’t know, sir.” Brad’s smile fades, something serious taking its place. “Don’t knock it until you try it.”

“Does that mean you’ll be sharing that MRE with me, Sergeant?”

“No way in hell, sir.” Brad tucks the MRE in his pocket as another shout goes up from the makeshift football field. They both look up and Brad sighs as Rudy traps Ray underneath him, his fists landing loud enough to resound across to them. “Fuck.”

“Go on.” Nate nods in Ray’s direction. “You’ve got a man down.”

“Yeah.” Brad jogs over toward the field, falling in behind Ray as he walks away. They don’t talk, but Brad doesn’t come back either, and Nate watches him go. It’s nearly impossible to lose Brad in the crowd; people seem to give him a wide berth. Nate can barely remember when he used to think it was Brad that put people off, but it’s simply respect, he thinks. Or in some cases, fear. Brad doesn’t suffer fools, which makes the Marines a dubious place for him. Nate laughs to himself and shakes his head. Maybe Brad’s not the only one in the wrong line of work.

**

Nate moves into the structure they’ve appropriated for a dining hall and rec area, nodding to the members of Bravo Two as he goes. Whatever tensions were boiling earlier seem to have died down to a simmer, bubbling lightly under the surface where they can be ignored. Brad’s at the far side of the room, slouched on the bench and leaning back against the table. Espera is beside him and Bennett, Doc Bryant glaring at the revelry going on around them. 

He settles next to Doc and watches as Brad pulls the MRE out of his pocket, finally tearing into it and teasing small amounts of jalapeño and cheese spread onto the edges of his crackers. He’s taking his time, just giving himself a taste, and Nate can’t help but watch. Brad’s movements are meticulous and suggestive, though Nate’s not sure if that’s really the case of it now that there’s no one shooting at him, he can allow himself to think about Brad’s body against his, the feel of Brad shuddering through an orgasm. Brad smiles up at him slightly, raising one eyebrow as he squeezes a small amount of the spread onto the cracker and then licks it off with the tip of his tongue.

Shaking his head, Nate turns his attention back to the conversation. He doesn’t have any answers, and he doesn’t think they actually look to him for them. They trust Brad, as they should, though he thinks he’s earned something from them and Espera looks at him, not Brad, for whatever reassurance he can offer. Maybe that’s worth everything. 

When Lilley’s movie starts, Nate knows that whatever story it tells, it’s not going to be the truth. He lived it, and he doesn’t know what the truth is. All he can do is look at Brad and wait for him to look back, nod as an answer to whatever questions linger between them. Brad swallows hard and Nate looks away. None of the answers seem real anyway, so maybe it doesn’t matter what the questions were in the end. He pushes off the table and leaves the men behind, not sure where to go from here.

The tents are deserted and it feels like a ghost town. He can hear the shouts and calls and laughter of men, knows that cheap alcohol is going to cause problems before the morning, but he’s been assured they’re in the clear for the night. It’s the first assurance he actually believes. The officers’ tent is equally silent. Godfather has the command staff getting jacked up on the promises of medals and streamers and better hooch than the local Iraqis could provide, but Nate opted for his men and now solitude. 

“Hey.”

He glances over at the tent opening and smiles at Brad. “Hey.”

“You want to do a little recon?”

“Our part of the war is over.”

“Yeah.” Brad nods. “But, you know, we should have at least one chance to do what we’re trained to do while we’re here.” He holds the shoulder strap of his weapon and lets his lip curl in an impish smile. “The odds of something worse happening are pretty slim, sir.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I’m assured of it.” Brad lets his mouth fall into a full fledged grin. “Come on, Nate. Don’t you want to do something we’re good at?”

“I think after this, we’re going to have to expand the definition of what we’re good at.” Nate rubs his eyes with one hand and slings his weapon onto his shoulder. “You know what I want more than anything in the world?”

“A cold beer?”

“No.”

“A room full of Playboy Playmates and a case full of condoms?”

Nate laughs. “No.”

“A hot shower?”

Groaning a little, Nate shakes his head. “Close, but no.”

“Come on, Nate.” Brad ducks out of the tent and heads out, leaving Nate to follow. He does, falling in step with Brad as he leads the way toward the outskirts of the encampment. Pallets are stacked with ammunition and supplies, creating monstrous shadows in the moonlight that manages to make it through the fine layer of dust in the air. Brad moves behind a crumbling wall, and Nate can hear the distant rumble of the generators powering the thin lights and make-shift showers. The air smells like cordite and sulfur, death and excrement, sweat and heat. Brad slows his stride, bending over to stay below the wall-line and Nate mimics his posture. They round another corner and it’s open air, something haunting and undeveloped in the wild grasses encroaching on the blown out earth.

“This is our recon?”

Brad holds his finger to his lips and eases past another wall toward a copse of trees nearby. They’re scraggly and fragile-looking, though Nate knows they’re anything but to survive the climate. They offer shade, which causes Nate to shiver, the discrepancy in the temperature from their shadows to the pathways noticeable. 

“What are we doing, Brad?”

Brad sits in the grass and sets his gun down, looking up at Nate. “Talking.”

“About?”

“No one blames you, sir.” Brad nearly disappears in the grass, the swaying strands of it as tall as his shoulders, the same bleached blond as his hair. “For any of this. None of us blame you.”

Nate swallows and glances back at the camp and then down at Brad. “Maybe you should.”

“No, sir.” There’s no hesitation at all in Brad’s voice. 

“I should have done more. I should have done better. You may not blame me, Sergeant, but I do.”

“Well then, no disrespect meant, sir,” Brad smiles up at him, his head tilted back and his teeth bright, his face scrubbed free of all but the freshest dirt and his expression amused and promising in ways Nate shouldn’t think about. “But you’re an idiot.”

Nate laughs. “Thanks.”

Brad reaches out and snags Nate’s belt, tugging him down to his knees between Brad’s spread legs. “Don’t mention it.”

Nate braces himself on Brad’s raised knees, stopping his forward momentum. “I’m beginning to suspect, Sergeant, that this is not actually a recon mission.”

“Well, given that nearly all of the missions we were given failed to fall under the umbrella of reconnaissance, I think you’re judging me way too harshly here, sir.” Brad’s fingers ghost over the back of Nate’s hands, tracing Nate’s knuckles. “Not only that, but you’re wrong. I’m here studying the terrain.” 

“Brad…”

“Did you think about me, Nate?” He doesn’t look up from his slow exploration of the back of Nate’s hand, tracing veins and knuckles. “While we were out there? Did you think about me?”

“I thought about all my men. Your safety was my primary concern.”

“No, Nate. Not your men. Not Sergeant Colbert.” He gets to Nate’s wrist, stealing under the cuff of his jacket. “Did you think about me? Did you think about the supply truck and the latrine? Did you think about that, Nate?”

Nate grits his teeth, a groan thick in the back of his throat. “Brad.”

“Did you?” Brad moves one hand back to Nate’s belt then slides it down over the bulge of Nate’s erection. “Did you jack off thinking about me, Nate?”

Nate closes his eyes, swaying forward slightly. “I thought…I thought we weren’t doing this.”

“We weren’t. We didn’t. For twenty-one days of combat, we didn’t do this at all.” He undoes Nate’s belt and then works at his fly. Nate can taste dust in his throat and realizes his mouth is open, breathing hard as Brad works his hand into Nate’s pants. “I dreamed about it when I slept and I jacked off to the thought of it when I could, but this…we didn’t do this at all, sir.”

“Y-you are correct, Sergeant.” Nate swallows in a futile attempt to wet his throat, watching as Brad tugs the desert camouflage away from Nate’s skin. “We definitely didn’t do this. I’d remember this.”

“So, did you? Think about me?” Brad curls his hand around Nate’s dick, stroking it slowly. His smile is just north of wicked. “Sir?”

“Fuck, Brad.” Nate’s hips jerk forward, pressing him harder against Brad’s palm. 

“Not an answer, sir. And, really, I’m beginning to think you didn’t really make it through BRC if you’re not able to stand just this little bit of torture.” He tightens his grip and Nate does the same, nails digging into the knees of Brad’s fatigues. “I’m barely touching you, Lieutenant.”

“That would be the problem, Sergeant.” Nate shifts closer, knees pressed against the underside of Brad’s thighs. “What’s the matter? Afraid to get your hands dirty?”

“I can think of a lot of ways to do that, sir.” Brad laughs, low and rough as he sweeps his thumb over the head of Nate’s cock. 

Nate bites back a gasp and thrusts, sliding his hands down Brad’s thighs. Leaning in, he growls his words in the raspy air the escapes Brad’s parted lips. “I want to fuck you, Sergeant. In my dreams and in my combat jacks, that’s what I did. I pressed you face down into my seat in the goddamned Humvee and I fucked you. I fucked you deep and hard and wet, not giving a shit about the fucking guns so long as I could lube up my dick and slide it inside you.”

Brad’s breath shudders and he grabs Nate’s jacket with his free hand, jerking him closer still and kissing him. It’s messy and hard, painful and desperate and Nate can feel the roughness of Brad’s fatigues against his skin. 

“Is that what you want, Sergeant? You want to get on your knees so I can fuck you right here, right now?” He can feel the aggression building inside him, just like it did for Patterson and Person in the afternoon. The driving need to pound out his anger in Brad’s willing flesh is just as viable as a fist fight on the football field. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.” Brad groans the word, biting down on Nate’s lower lip. Nate tastes blood and shoves Brad to the ground, pinning him there, his body braced above Brad’s, boots against his ankles and hands wrestling for Brad’s wrists alongside his head. Brad’s breathing hard and there’s nothing ice-like about him right now. “Yes, sir.”

Nate releases Brad’s wrist and works his hand down between them, struggling to get Brad’s fatigues undone. Ambient noise filters in, shouting and cursing, laughter and singing and it has all the makings of some Boy Scout camping trip except for the lack of marshmallows and the fact that he’s got his hands wrapped around Brad Colbert’s dick. Or maybe that does make it like a camping trip. Either way, he’s not sure who groans louder as he wraps his hand around Brad and guides him out, fitting his own cock against Brad’s.

“Lieutenant.”

Nate freezes. Brad stops breathing beneath him and for the first time in his life, Nate thinks he knows what fear looks like. He’s not sure what’s in his own eyes, but Brad’s are practically black, wide and horrified. Whatever else can be said of this, and no matter how much homoerotic bullshit they all spew, this could very likely get them both killed. 

“Lieutenant, I’m sorry to interrupt.” Gunny’s low Texas drawl sounds half amused. “I know it’s been a long couple of weeks without any privacy, but the Captain’s looking for you, sir.” 

“He thinks it’s a jack,” Nate whispers, almost to himself, before raising his voice. “I’ll be right there.” He doesn’t move as Gunny’s footsteps retreat, waiting until the sound dies before easing away from Brad. The initial surge of fear spiked his erection, but lying against Brad and the relief of not being caught out bring it right back. Nate gets to his feet and rearranges his fatigues, looking down at Brad who remains motionless on the ground. “Even if he knows, he’s pretending it was a jack. Probably for his sake as well as ours.”

Brad nods and arches his hips off the ground, refastening his fatigues. Nate watches, not quite able to look away, then holds out his hand for Brad to take. He helps Brad to his feet then stands there, still far too close, especially now that they’re out in the open, easily seen between the tree branches. “The captain’s waiting, sir.”

Nate nods and reaches out, lightly touching Brad’s wrist. There’s a slight darkness to the skin, a hint of pressure on the pale flesh. “Goodnight, Sergeant.”

“Not as good as it could have been.” Brad offers another wry smile. “Sir.”

**

Bullshit and minutia take up the rest of the month, and Nate keeps his distance from Brad as best he can. The natural separation of officers and enlisted takes over now that there’s not a battle raging directly around them, no direct need for constant communications. In a lot of ways, it’s a relief, even though Godfather still insists on the grooming standard. Nate watches from the defacto command center as the men begin their regimens again, running in matching black suits every morning, ten miles or more with gear, sweat and dust clinging to them so that, by the time they’re done, they’ve faded to gray.

He’s taken to jacking off in the latrines again, one hand against the wall and head against his hand, his other wrapped around his dick while he thinks about Brad beneath him, thinks about that tight, hard body closed over his dick as he slides inside. It doesn’t ever take long, and his hard-on never completely goes away, but he can actually manage to hold a conversation without embarrassing himself so long as he can turn the lock to occupied three times a day.

The day before they’re supposed to ship out, Person comes looking for him, looking completely out of place in the midst of the upper echelons of whatever society they’ve established here. “Lieutenant Fick, sir?”

“Yes, Corporal Person?”

“Do you have a moment, sir?” He glances at the rest of the gathered officers and Nate’s indescribably glad that Ray ran out of Ripped Fuel a long time ago. “It’s kind of important.”

“Not right now, Corporal.”

“It’s about Sergeant Colbert, sir.”

“Ah.” Nate takes a quick look around and, for the most part, the rest of them seem to be concentrating on reports or whatever other busy work they’ve managed to make up for themselves. The men are almost at loose ends, and it’s only been through sheer self-discipline and Sixta’s backwoods southern twang reminding them of the grooming standard that Nate hasn’t found himself at a Captain’s Mast every morning. 

“It’s important, sir.”

“Yes, Corporal. All right.” Nate grabs his soft cover and shoves it on his head as they go outside, falling in step beside Ray. He still has a touch of his manic energy now that they’re in motion, but Nate thinks it might be concern about Brad more than anything. Nate knows where Ray falls in Brad’s hierarchy. The fact that Brad puts up with him at all without putting a bullet or three through Ray’s constantly in-motion mouth speaks volumes about his ability and how much Brad relies on him. “Sergeant Colbert is all right, Corporal?”

“Brad? Fuck, yeah. You just need to see this.” Ray smiles and then has the decency to blush. “Sir.”

“You said it was urgent, Corporal.”

“Yeah. Well, yeah. I mean, sort of.” Ray shrugs. “Just come on, sir. Trust me.”

Nate follows him, the low-level arousal he seems to be sporting all the time threatening to become more pronounced, not to mention embarrassing, at the thought of seeing Brad. There’s a crowd gathered outside the tent and Nate frowns. “What’s going on here, Corporal Person?”

“You’ll see, sir.” Ray nods to Dirty Earl who leads the group inside. 

“Okay, mail call.” Earl has the mail bag slung over his shoulder and he starts tossing mail around the room. Brad looks up, his gaze bypassing Earl and landing squarely on Nate. “Jacks. Stafford.” He calls out names, flinging letters like he’s in the middle of a grand Frisbee tournament. Brad doesn’t look at the envelopes that land on his chest, his eyes still caught on Nate. “Espera.” Earl sets the bag down. “Sorry, gents. That’s all Santa Claus has for you.”

“Not quite.” Walt leans into the room, easing around Nate with his hands behind his back. “There’s still one more thing left.” Ray nudges Nate and Nate looks away from Brad to Walt, who pulls a FedEx package from behind his back. “Merry Christmas, Sergeant Colbert.”

“Holy shit.” Brad straightens up and scrambles off the floor, grabbing the package from Walt before he can even react. Everyone in the room is smiling as Brad slices open the box and sends packing peanuts scattering over the floor. “Holy shit.”

Ray nudges Nate, grinning like he’s back on Ripped Fuel. Nate has to smile back though; the sheer excitement on Brad’s face is contagious. “Look at that.”

Brad pulls out the turret shield and holds it up; the unmarred titanium seems bright even in the dim quarters. “Holy shit.”

“Too bad we ship out tomorrow.” Ray smirks in Brad’s direction. “I figure we’ll get a shitload of batteries, dip and porn mags tomorrow right as we take off.”

“It’ll give you something to do on the way home,” Brad doesn’t look away from the shield. “God, she’s beautiful.”

“Okay, Brad, now you’re starting to sound like Trombley. Don’t do that weird shit.” Ray comes over and takes the shield from Brad. “Don’t talk to the weaponry. It just makes you look psycho. We already have one, let’s not push our luck.”

Brad watches Ray carry the shield over to his bunk then turns and looks at Nate again. “Sir.”

“I’d say better late than never, Sergeant, but I don’t know if that’s the case.” Nate shakes his head, still smiling. “Still, better late than never.”

Brad glances back into the room and then moves toward Nate, falling in as Nate turns around and leaves the tent. It’s been nearly a month since he’s been this close to Brad, and nothing’s changed in how he reacts. Brad shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the motor pool. “I’m getting really fucking tired of running fifteen miles twice a day, sir.”

“Have you tried jacking off?”

“I do that too.” He gives Nate a sidelong glance. “We ship out tomorrow, sir, back to Pendleton.”

“We do.”

“You’ve been running too, sir.”

“Yes.” It seems stupid to even try to deny it. He knows Brad’s been watching, and even if he hasn’t, Nate’s certain he’s past hiding anything from Brad. He was past that before they even made it through Baghdad. 

“The first thing I’m going to do is take a long, hot shower for as long as the water holds out. And then I’m going to take my bike out and ride as far and as fast as I can.” Brad looks up at the sky, too bright even though it’s impossible to pinpoint the sun. “I fully expect at least one speeding ticket, if someone can catch up to me. What about you, sir?”

“I’m going to find a hotel near the base or away from it, I don’t care. Just someplace where I can shut and lock the door and be completely alone. Where I can shower and lie around naked, or put on clothes that don’t smell like the desert. I want to eat food that doesn’t come out of silver bags and I’m going to order something ice cold. Beer, soda, ice cream…I don’t know what yet, but something cold.”

“Ray says he’s going to find the nearest pussy patch and eat his way through it.” Brad laughs softly, cutting a sideways glance toward Nate.

“That…sounds very much like something Corporal Person would say.” Nate bites his lower lip and sucks on it for a moment then turns to face Brad. “Monterey.”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“Is that far enough? To ride.”

“I think it would be all right, sir.” Brad shifts closer, the movement barely noticeable though Nate’s body reacts instinctively. “I imagine they have hotels there. In Monterey.”

“I would imagine that they do, Sergeant.” Nate nods once and lets is eyes roam down the entire length of Brad’s body. When he meets Brad’s gaze again, he can’t help but wonder if his eyes give away as much as Brad’s. “Sergeant.”

Brad steps back and nods as well before turning back to the tent. “Lieutenant.”

Nate watches him go and then exhales, looking up at the stars. The horizon glows orange and cold from the ongoing battles and tracers dance at the edges of Nate’s vision, but the sky is a light show all its own. He smiles to himself and glances back in the direction Brad had gone, counting the days until he gets what he really wants, somewhere in Monterey.

**

Nate stands outside on the balcony of his hotel, staring at the ocean. Every time he looks at it, it seems bluer than he remembers, and it smells a hell of a lot better than the desert. He’s in shorts and a t-shirt and he feels almost naked, exposed without the weight of his uniform and his gun and sixty-odd pounds of gear. Of course, concentrating on those feelings makes it much easier to avoid the other ones that keep threatening to crowd his brain, the ones that remind him what he’s doing here and what he’s hoping for, what he wants. 

It seems unreal back here in California with the internet and 24 hour news service and cell phones. Not just Brad, not just what happened and didn’t between them, but the war, the reality of dead bodies and burning buildings and bullets at close range. Holding people’s lives in his hands is like some sort of movie he saw a long time ago and only vaguely remembers the ending.

He hears the bike long before he sees it, and it’s impossible to mistake it for anything but Brad’s. The modified exhaust and engine cause heads to turn nearly as much as Brad does as he parks, his long legs straddling the machine. Nate looks down at him, watches the crowd as he climbs off the bike, peeling off his helmet and leather jacket. He’s wearing jeans and his USMC t-shirt is so faded it’s nearly colorless. Nate swallows hard as Brad looks up and smiles at the sky. 

Letting loose a shuddering breath, Nate moves back into the hotel room, glancing around at the furnishings. It cost him more than he’s willing to admit and it’s probably a ridiculous expense, but the spa bathtub and multi-head shower make it worth it even if he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to do with a chaise lounge or an executive desk. Brad’s probably going to laugh his ass off. Nate glances at the mirror and winces, his hair longer than regulation and his clothes making him look about ten years younger than he really is. He’s debating changing when there’s a knock on the door and then the metallic beep of the key card.

Brad walks in and stops, taking in the surroundings like any good Recon Marine. He keeps his back to the door until it shuts and then surveys more casually. Nate stands there, uncertain of what to do, until Brad’s made a circuit of the room with his eyes. “Wow. You Lieutenants must make a hell of a lot more than I ever though.” He sets his helmet down and tosses his jacket over the back of a chair. 

“I thought about offering to suck cock for it, but it seems that doesn’t have the same currency in the real world.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?” 

Brad finally looks at Nate, his eyes dark. “Suck anyone else’s cock.”

If Nate had any question as to what was going to happen, Brad’s calm statement clears it away. “Is that what you want me to do?” He doesn’t really recognize his own voice, the thick sound heavy in his chest. “You want me to suck your cock, Brad?” A shiver seems to run through Brad and Nate takes a step forward, pressing what little advantage he might have. Brad’s eyes are locked on Nate’s mouth, watching as Nate licks his lips. “I told you what I fantasized about during my combat jacks, Brad. What about you?”

“You know,” Brad rasps, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “You fucking know.”

Nate nods, surprised at how easy it is to close the distance between them, to reach for Brad’s jeans and undo the leather belt, the button and zipper. “I want to hear you.” Brad’s dick is hard against the denim as Nate opens the fly, tugging at Brad’s boxer-briefs until they’re stripped away, leaving Brad’s t-shirt hovering just below his navel and Brad’s cock jutting out thickly, the slick head twitching as Nate sinks to his knees. “Tell me what you want, Brad.”

“I want to fuck your mouth, Nate.” His voice has the same deep timbre that Nate recalls from when things were the thickest in battle – a calm, measured tone that seems to come from deep inside him. His hand cups lightly against the back of Nate’s head, palm sliding over the too-long hair. “I want to slide my dick between those fucking lips of yours and fuck your mouth until you swallow me down.”

Nate licks his lips, still looking up at Brad as he leans in, his tongue flicking against the head of Brad’s cock. Brad makes a strangled sound and Nate parts his lips, breathing against him. He can feel Brad’s fingers tightening against the back of his head as he takes Brad in his mouth, his hands moving to Brad’s hips to keep him from moving, allowing Nate time to adjust to the weight and feel of him on his tongue.

Brad’s eyes are locked on Nate’s, watching with an almost painful intensity as Nate begins to move, lips and teeth and tongue against Brad’s skin. At first it’s a concentrated effort not to gag and his fingers dig into Brad’s hips in an effort to control it. Brad groans at the pressure and so Nate keeps it up, even after that first shocked moment when Brad’s cock hits the back of his throat.

“Jesus, Nate.” Brad’s voice trembles and Nate remembers that he’s human in those shaky syllables. “Y-you’ve never fucking done this before, have you?” Nate makes a low noise, of agreement or denial, let Brad take it as he will. Brad groans and loosens his grip on Nate’s head, stroking his hair back instead. “Fuck, Nate. You’re killing me.”

Nate almost smiles as he moves, closing his eyes to concentrate on just the feel of Brad’s skin. Nate’s hasn’t made a practice of looking at other men, but he’s also been in the Marines long enough to have seen the variety it offers. Brad’s cock is thick and moderately long, surprisingly unlike the rest of his lean body. The vein along the underside pulses against Nate’s tongue as he presses against it, sucking hard as Brad slowly rolls his hips forward. Nate can feel the desperate restraint Brad’s suddenly employing, trying to let Nate set the pace.

Pulling back causes Brad to groan unhappily until he looks down at Nate. Nate can feel his lips, swollen and wet, and Brad’s eyes are hot on them. “Not supposed to stop, sir.”

“Thought you were going to fuck my mouth, Sergeant.” He slides his thumbs down to the sides of Brad’s dick and rubs the silky rough blond hairs. “I’m beginning to think you’re taking it easy on me.”

“No, sir.”

“You think I’m some kind of pussy, Sergeant?”

Brad laughs and shakes his head, fisting his hand in Nate’s hair and pulling his head back. His bicep stands out in high relief, the muscles bunching with his grip. “I’m definitely not thinking pussy, sir.”

“I want you to fuck my mouth, Sergeant.” Nate leans in and teases his teeth along the head of Brad’s cock. “That’s a fucking order.”

“Fuck.” Brad groans roughly as Nate takes him in his mouth again, thrusting roughly. Nate still grips Brad’s hips to control the depth of his thrusts, but they quickly establish a rhythm and soon Nate’s taking him deeper. Brad’s breath is shuddering above him and Nate’s not sure he can breathe at all, too caught up in the feel of Brad’s thrust, the slide of his cock. 

His hand slides around to Brad’s ass, tracing the taut muscle and squeezing, pulling Brad closer. Brad pounds his hand against his thigh and tightens his other hand in Nate’s hair, holding him still and close as the pace of Brad’s thrusts increases. He’s gasping and murmuring under his breath, something between dirty words and an Air Supply song, pushing into Nate’s mouth hard and fast. 

Nate sucks and swallows, trying to control the speed and impact with the pressure of his mouth, but Brad’s relentless. Nate moans around him, the sound reverberating against Brad’s skin and Brad’s head falls back, his cock jerking hard and suddenly Nate’s bombarded by the thick rush of Brad’s come. He struggles to open his throat, sliding his tongue along the underside of Brad’s cock in an effort to swallow him down. Brad is making low, desperate noises and both hands are locked at the back of Nate’s head, holding him tight against him as he shudders his way through it.

Pulling back as soon as Brad’s grip slackens, Nate coughs and sputters before sucking in ocean-scented air. Brad stumbles back, sitting on the edge of the bed, his jeans and skivvies trapped around his ankles. Nate swallows, his throat burning, and looks at Brad. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Brad look like this before – uncertain and shaky and mindblown – not even after being lit up on the bridge at Al Kut. Brad looks at him for a long time and Nate stays there, on his knees, unsure of what to do next.

“C’mere.” Brad slurs the words, voice thick and punch-drunk. Nate isn’t sure he can make it to his feet, given that all the blood in his body is concentrated in his cock, so he drops down onto his hands and crawls the few feet to the foot of the bed. Brad groans again and reaches for Nate, tugging him up against him and kissing him. Nate’s lips feel swollen and slightly numb, but the pressure of Brad’s hard kiss breaks through the fog in his brain and he kisses him back, tongue invading Brad’s mouth hungrily.

Brad fumbles with Nate’s shorts, managing to get them undone and pushed down his legs. Nate hisses as, in his haste, Brad tugs at Nate’s boxer-briefs and snags his cock, putting further pressure on the swollen flesh. 

“Sorry. Fuck. Sorry.” Brad reaches down, freeing Nate from the fabric, only to wrap him up in the tight grip of Brad’s fingers. “Jesus, Nate.” He strokes him roughly and Nate has to grab his wrist, stilling Brad’s movements with the tight band of his grip.

“I’m going to fuck you.” Nate reminds him, pushing Brad’s hand away and guiding him flat onto his back on the bed. “Slide my dick inside you, remember?”

“Fuck, yes.” Brad jerks his arm, the sudden movement bringing Nate down on top of him. Brad’s other hand grasps the nape of Nate’s neck and he kisses him hard for a long moment before shoving Nate away and sitting up, unlacing his boots and kicking off his jeans before sliding his shirt off. 

Brad naked is pretty fucking overwhelming and Nate sucks in a hot breath that burns his lungs. Brad just smiles that smile, the one that haunted Nate’s jerk off sessions and twists, crawling up the bed and stretching out, elbows against the covers and knees spread. “Jesus-fucking-Christ.” Nate rips off his t-shirt and kicks his shorts into a pile beside Brad’s clothes and kneels on the bed, fingers shaking as they trace over Brad’s calves. “B-Brad…”

“Don’t turn into some sort of Army pussy on me now, sir.” Brad’s voice shakes slightly, and Nate can see his white knuckles where he’s clenching the bedspread tight. 

“Like you said, Brad.” Nate traces his finger against the crack of Brad’s ass, watching the shudder run through Brad’s body like he’s buzzing on an adrenaline high. “Not thinking about pussy right now.” Brad glances back at Nate, his lips parted in rough, anticipatory breaths that keep him from smiling exactly, but Nate smiles back anyway. He leans in, breathing against Brad’s hip where his skin is lightly bruised, the marks of Nate’s fingers embedded there. “You want me to fuck you, Brad?”

“Y-yes. Yes, sir.” Another shaky breath parts Brad’s lips and he licks them, his tongue darting out quickly. He clears his throat roughly and nods once, his voice back to almost normal. “Yes, sir.”

Nate slides off the bed and grabs his rucksack, setting it on the nightstand. Brad’s hands release and regrip the bedspread as the zipper sounds loud in the silence. Nate’s not sure if he’s being methodical or torturous as he takes his time finding the box of condoms and the bottle of lube he bought on the outskirts of town, trying hard not to flush at the look the girl at the cash register had given him. He’d had to come back to the hotel and jack off as it was, just thinking about what he was buying them for and now…

“Nate.”

His name on Brad’s lips is like a fucking siren song and Nate moves back to the bed, kneeling easily between Brad’s legs. His cock hurts, aching from the hard pulse of blood that doesn’t seem to stop as his fingers graze over Brad’s skin. 

“Fuck, Nate.” Brad’s whole body is shaking from the tightness of his muscles, the restraint and discipline of holding himself still. 

Nate slides the condom on, the metal foil reminding him far too much of MREs for a moment before he’s too busy trying not to come from the feel of his fingers on his dick. Only the knowledge that doing so would mean he wouldn’t be able to slide inside Brad keeps him from losing control.

“Could you maybe not take your sweet fucking time, sir?” 

Nate laughs as he opens the lube, slicking up his fingers before pressing them lightly against Brad’s skin. “Oh, no. I’m definitely going to take my sweet fucking time, Sergeant.” He does just that, slowly working a finger inside Brad. He’s painfully tight, his body clenching around Nate’s first knuckle. “Jesus, Brad. So fucking tight.”

Brad bows his head, his back arched upward so that his tattoo seems to undulate with every thrust of Nate’s finger, slowly working deeper. Brad’s breathing’s gone shallow, the rapid rise and fall matching Nate’s own. Nate thinks he’s likely to come before he can even get Brad stretched enough to take a second finger, much less Nate’s actual dick, but suddenly Brad shifts and moans, his knees spreading further and Nate pushes another finger in.

“F-fuck.” The word hits an octave that Nate’s never heard Brad hit and he realizes in an instant that Brad’s never done this before. Nate sucks in a breath and rests his head against Brad’s lower back, breathing against the Heavy Metal tattoo. 

“Jesus.”

“M-more.” Brad’s hips are rolling, thrusting back against Nate’s hand. Nate’s not sure whose breath is louder as he gasps against Brad’s skin, working his fingers steadily into Brad’s body. “J-Jesus, Na-Nate.” Brad shifts, back bowing as he thrusts back. “Fuck me.”

Nate eases his hand away and moves up behind Brad, holding his cock against Brad, sliding along the crack of his ass before pushing against him, one long, low groan parting his lips as Brad’s body closes around him. It’s tight and painful in all the right ways, and every slow, shallow stroke gets him deeper, until he’s buried in Brad, flush against his ass and feeling like every ounce of considerable force in Brad Colbert’s body is centered specifically around his dick. “Oh…God.”

Brad’s past speaking, his hands clutching reflexively at the bedspread which is a tangled mess around him. He’s managed to work a pillow down and his teeth are sunk into it, his eyes squeezed shut tight. Nate’s chest heaves with the effort of remaining still until he can’t not move. The first shift earns him a shattered gasp from Brad, mostly swallowed by the pillow as Nate grasps Brad’s hips again and holds him steady for his thrust.

Nate closes his eyes, forcing himself to control his breathing, to control himself. Even without looking though, he recognizes the sound and smell and feel of Brad, and that seems to override any and all discipline that the Corps has drilled into him. His fingers darken the bruises already on Brad’s hips, and his thrusts get more erratic, desperate as he pushes faster, deeper. He doesn’t try to talk, not sure he can make anything more than primal sounds, his nails digging into Brad’s skin as the last threads of control he has snapping as he thrusts as deep as he can, coming hard.

Nate slumps forward and Brad’s balance is blown, his knees sliding out from under him so they collapse on the bed together. Instinct kicks in and Brad tightens around him again and Nate feels a second jerk from his cock that leaves him shaking harder than the first. Nate breathes roughly against the base of Brad’s neck, licking his lips and tasting the sweat on Brad’s skin. 

Brad shivers and Nate braces himself again, pulling back and easing out slowly. Brad makes another noise as they part, slumping back on the bed again as Nate uses the reserves of his strength to dispose of the condom before sinking down beside Brad on the bed. 

“That was…” Nate stops as Brad turns his head, his eyes skeptical. Nate shakes his head and smiles. “Pretty fucking amazing.”

“No pun intended.” Brad yawns and stretches out. “I think I’m in love with this bed.”

“You can stay in it.” Nate shifts onto his side and props himself up on his elbow, looking down at Brad. “Long as you want.”

“Not going to wake me at reveille?” Brad stretches his arm out, looping it lightly over Nate’s hip. “Bugle at dawn?”

“Might blow something at dawn,” Nate laughs, leaning down and kissing the hollow behind Brad’s ear, damp with sweat. “But probably much later than that.”

Brad smiles, eyes closed. “Go to sleep, sir.”

“Is that an order?”

Brad raises up on one arm and leans over, kissing Nate soundly, his tongue snaking past Nate’s parted lips and curling around Nate’s tongue and sucking on it possessively. Pulling back, he looks down at Nate, his lips curved slightly. “Yes, sir. I believe that it is.”


End file.
